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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26270260">Keep on Loving You</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/notso_bad/pseuds/notso_bad'>notso_bad</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>And they talk A Lot, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Fix-It, I wanted to do it too, Idiots in Love, M/M, Not Myra Kaspbrak Friendly, Oblivious Eddie Kaspbrak, POV Alternating, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier is a Mess, Richie pops a lot of boners, Slow Burn, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting, They're Trying Okay?, This Shit is Emotional Edging, and he cries a lot, bed sharing trope, is that a bad thing?, lap sitting trope, like a lot of bed sharing, seriously, the same getting together story that's been written a million times, the slowest of burns</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 05:29:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>257,851</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26270260</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/notso_bad/pseuds/notso_bad</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Richie and Eddie remember who they used to be and decide what they’ll become.</p><p>A post canon fix-it where Richie saves Eddie from a skewering, Eddie U-Hauls to California, and they both slowly figure their shit out.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>303</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>393</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter One</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: Myra and that whole abusive relationship™, cellphone tracking, mentions of Richie's alcoholism, drug problems, and depressive/suicidal thoughts, a light smattering of internalized homophobia</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was a long drive from New York to Derry but Eddie liked long drives.</p><p>Behind the wheel he was in control, he was <em>moving</em> - he’d be moving <em>faster </em>if the asshole BMW in front of him stopped tapping on the fucking brakes – but the city skyline shrinking in his rearview mirror was still a deeply comforting sight. Alone in his semi-private space, he could be loud and angry and fast and no one was going to tell him to relax or stop shouting or slow down (except for the police but that’s why he had a radar detector, obviously).</p><p>Long drives gave Eddie time to process; time he sorely needed at the moment because he had a lot of shit to brew on and with his phone blissfully set to Do Not Disturb While Driving mode and a finance podcast droning soothingly low over his speakers, he could sort through his convoluted thoughts on his own.</p><p>Thoughts like: Why was he going to Derry, anyways? What exactly was Eddie <em>doing</em>? And <em>who the fuck</em> was Mike?</p><p>Jumping in the car and taking off was spontaneous and Eddie <em>wasn’t </em>the spontaneous type, not at all. But something buried deep inside him took over his higher functions and suddenly his bags were packed and he was half-assedly explaining himself to Myra (hard to fucking do when <em>he</em> had no idea why he was so compelled to drive nearly eight hours to fucking <em>Derry</em>). Like he was on autopilot, he threw himself right back into his busted up Escalade and tore out of the neighborhood with the ripping screech of tires against pavement.</p><p>An hour ago - 80 miles ago - Eddie thought he knew himself. He thought he knew his <em>life</em>. He thought he knew what was possible and what was <em>impossible</em> but the head-rush of memories slamming back into him like a fucking train made him think that was a convenient lie he’d been telling himself. Did other people just <em>forget their hometowns</em>? Their <em>childhoods</em>? Why were alarm klaxons sounding in his head (louder and more insistent than the usual sirens screaming about bacteria and pollen and death rates on the interstate)?</p><p>He had <em>vague </em>memories of Derry. Of a little town on the edge of the Kenduskeag. Of growing up small and fragile and hurt and sick. Of being scared (Eddie was always scared) and being brave (<em>what</em>?) and of loving so much his whole body ached with it – the good kind of ache, the kind that <em>meant </em>something – but who had he loved so fully the pain of heartbreak had been worth the trouble?</p><p>He was mid-lane change when it clicked into place. The thing he’d been missing. The harsh <em>tttck </em>of the turning signal slotting back into place hitting like a punctuation mark to his thoughts.</p><p><em>His friends</em>.</p><p>Eddie jolted with a sudden rush of tangled-up feelings, the breadth of which he hadn’t felt in <em>years</em>. Overwhelmed, he huffed out a small, unexpected laugh before a niggling worm of doubt clouded his unprecedented happiness.</p><p>He had<em> forgotten</em> his friends. How could he have forgotten his friends?</p><p>Eddie had always assumed there was something wrong with him - some fatal error he couldn’t wrap his mind around that made <em>connecting with people </em>a distinct impossibility - because even <em>Myra</em> had a collection of close friends and she was… well…</p><p><em>Eddie </em>didn’t have friends. He had colleagues. And acquaintances. He had a <em>wife</em>.</p><p>Besides that he had a big open hole, a black cavern in his chest where something was supposed to fit, he fucking <em>knew </em>it, but he could never figure out what was missing. </p><p>But it was them. <em>The Losers!</em> his brain supplied, almost instinctively, holding out a glass of water to a man dying of thirst. And now he remembered them, it was like a balloon (a <em>red </em>balloon) was lodged inside his chest cavity, fitted right beside his organs, filling up to bursting and rearranging everything else to make room.</p><p>He blinked and the I-95 faded to the background because a memory was playing out like a flickering slideshow against a garage wall. A perfect summer evening, cicadas loud and humming, noon-day heat still radiating off the pavement even as the sun slipped behind the horizon. </p><p>And Big Bill was showing off his bike, one of his newer, sadder (<em>sadder</em>?) smiles threatening to lift the corners of his mouth. <em>Silver</em>. That’s what he called it, like naming your bike wasn’t fucking weird, but Bill could do anything and Eddie would still think the sun shone out of his ass because it may as well have. That damn bike was huge – ‘<em>too big for him</em>’ the adults always liked to tut, even though Bill was the biggest of all of them - but Bill was fearless, driven, always <em>adult </em>somehow even when he was ten and valiantly biting back tears over a scraped knee. </p><p>Bill and that fucking bike - how had Eddie forgotten? - he would ride that thing everywhere, daring the Losers to race him. And Richie (<em>Richie</em>?), that stupid asshole, he’d always take Bill up on the bet and lose, laughing his idiot head off like getting left in the dust was the funniest joke he’d ever heard, yucking it up until he keeled over onto a stranger’s yard and Stan had to back pedal and scold him for ruining someone’s nice lawn.</p><p>Stan. <em>Fuck</em>, <em>Stanley! </em>If anyone was going to listen to Eddie’s protests about germs and disease and danger it was Stan, the one voice of reason in the stupid stew. Quiet and thoughtful, he never said what he was thinking unless it got wheedled out of him, pushed to the point of explosion by annoyance or once, horribly, <em>fear</em>. (<em>Fear</em>?)</p><p>Eddie jerked a hand towards the AC dial, turning it down, alarmed to see his own fingers trembling.</p><p>Most the time the Losers left it up to Richie to antagonize Stan into sharing his thoughts, easily the most annoying of the bunch and seemingly in possession of a sixth sense for when Stan was chewing on something he wouldn’t share unless asked. But even after all this time, Eddie could still perfectly see one of those rare, shy grins Stan reserved for just the Losers, Richie’s arms around his shoulders, smiling cheeks pressed together and a red-headed girl taunting, ‘<em>Just kiss already</em>.’</p><p>The strange swooping feeling of elation mixed indecipherably with annoyance hit Eddie hard, nearly thirty years later, like a sucker-punch to the gut.</p><p>The redhead… Bev. <em>Bev. </em>Beverly Marsh! Too fucking beautiful to run around with the Losers but the most devoted member as if to spite that fact. God, she was the first girl Eddie could actually call a friend and he’d been grossly proud of being the kind of boy who hung out with a someone as cool as Bev. Even though Eddie thought he’d hate her for gumming up the group with stupid shit like <em>crushes</em>, it was impossible not to like her once she opened her mouth and tore Richie a new asshole for calling her ‘fire-crotch’ fifty times too many. </p><p>The two of them used to smoke. The memory blindsided Eddie as he switched lanes to weave around an SUV practically crawling at five miles over the speed limit. Bev and Richie, freshman year before… <em>she moved? </em>That’s right, she moved away (she was the first to go and never be heard from again). After school Eddie would find them on the far side of the football field leaning against the bleachers, smoking and laughing and shoving at each other until Bev twisted Richie into a headlock and the sight always made something in Eddie’s chest constrict (no, that was just his asthma). </p><p>Another part of him would scream ‘<em>Lung cancer!</em>’ in his mother’s bitter, half-hysterical voice – the same one he <em>still </em>heard any time he hurried past a smoker on the street. ‘<em>Rough-housing with lit cigarettes!</em>’ And Jesus fucking Christ did Richie have a crush on Bev too? Is that why he couldn’t leave her alone? </p><p>And why did they have to look so <em>cool</em> together - what fucking right did <em>Richie </em>have to ever look <em>cool </em>- he and Bev so unintentionally grunge and tall and artfully indifferent to what people thought of them. Remembered jealousy ripped through Eddie like a grass fire and in his memory, he felt a weird affinity with Ben as he furrowed his face into something sad and distant where he hovered three feet away, looking like an ordinary person stumbled into a fucking ad for MTV by accident.</p><p><em>Ben</em>! Oh Ben. It was a crime to forget Ben. The most decent one of them really - too fucking Good, the kind with a capital G - to have washed up in Derry in the first place let alone to wind up bunched together with the Losers, but he’d been a misfit just like the rest of them, seeing too much, <em>feeling </em>too much. <em>Empathetic</em>, the word flashed through Eddie’s adult mind, a word he’d never known before Ben moved away in the middle of junior year.</p><p>Ben was the good one; the one who cried watching <em>Neverending Story</em> in Richie’s basement when that kid’s horse got stuck in the mud, and he wasn’t even embarrassed about his tears like any other normal fucking sixteen-year-old would be. Instead he wiped them away with a steady hand and a breathy “<em>poor Artax</em>.”</p><p>And then Richie started crying because he <em>always </em>did when one of the others started up (he didn’t when they were younger, he <em>never </em>used to cry), and Eddie started bitching at the both of them to stop blubbering but Mike, looking serene and deeply affectionate, opened his arms and pulled them in for a hug, Richie clinging to his neck and trying to simper in his horrible southern belle Voice to hide how sad he was over a fictional fucking horse, Eddie looking on, profoundly distracted by the tears darkening Mike’s t-shirt. </p><p>And shit, <em>Mike</em>. Even though Eddie had just heard his voice on the phone a few hours ago, he hadn’t properly placed him until now, stuck in bumper to bumper traffic somewhere north of the Connecticut/Massachusetts border. Mike Hanlon. Tough and kind. Smarter than the rest of them but stuck working hard labor on a farm he felt obligated to inherit.</p><p>Shit, Eddie missed Mike like a limb he hadn’t realized he’d lost.</p><p>Mike had as much depth as Bill but a completely different kind. Bill could say “<em>everything will be alright</em>,” and Eddie would believe him because Bill was the type to know the whole fucking story start to finish. But Mike made Eddie feel like <em>he </em>was the one writing it. Like Eddie could do <em>anything</em>. If he just believed.</p><p>And <em>fuck</em>, how could Eddie forget Mike? He was the one who talked Eddie into applying for scholarships, for grants, for <em>college</em>. The one who told him “<em>it’s okay, you should get out of here</em>,” (of course it was fucking okay, why wouldn’t it be?) while Richie nodded somberly and tried out his terrible posh, upper-state New York Voice by adding, “<em>Righty-o</em>.” </p><p>Mike let Eddie put down his address for his applications (wait, why hadn’t he used his own?) so when Eddie got his letter from NYU, Mike was the one who delivered it, euphorically excited, skidding his grandpa’s pickup truck to a stop in the middle of the street to jump out and shout, “<em>Ed, my man, this one feels </em>thick<em>!</em>” He’d picked Richie clean off his feet when Eddie read his acceptance notice out loud while Richie briefly flinched in Mike’s too tight grasp and then screwed his face up into a wide grin.</p><p>And oh god that face. That stupid fucking face with those thick-as-fuck glasses and that shit-eating grin and that idiotic fucking snorting laughter that simultaneously made Eddie want to rip all his own hair out and scream-laugh in response. It slotted into place in Eddie’s memory as perfectly as his house key slid into the lock.</p><p>Richie.</p><p>Eddie swerved back into his lane when the right tires dragged over the serrated edge of the interstate, the loud humming thumps warning him he’d nearly driven off the road. He forced his eyes to focus on the view outside the windshield, unremarkable landscape slipping past in a blur.</p><p><em>Richie</em>.</p><p><em>Richie </em>fucking<em> Tozier</em>.</p><p>Superimposed over traffic were thick-framed glasses and huge magnified eyes shooting furtive looks up from Eddie’s cast while a finger traced over a red ‘V’. Eddie’s knuckles whitened on the steering wheel at the ghost of a too-big hand tucked into his as he fell asleep, the remaining Losers lined up in a row between cardboard boxes the night before Ben moved away, the heat of Richie’s ridiculous post growth-spurt body forming a parenthesis around him. Eddie’s lips curved down in an exaggerated frown as an excited, youthful voice called, “<em>Eds, hey Eds! Eddie Spaghetti!</em>” the words echoing around his head but getting louder instead of fading away.</p><p>And then another facet of Eddie’s bizarre and presumably damaged memory fixed itself into place.</p><p>Richie Tozier. Semi-famous, trash-mouthed, <em>comedian</em> Richie Tozier.</p><p>“Holy fucking shit <em>I knew it</em>!” Eddie shouted, his voice drowning out the low tones from his finance podcast; the one he hadn’t actually heard a single fucking word of. “I <em>knew </em>it, you <em>stupid fucking asshole</em>!”</p><p>Ages ago - shit, nearly fifteen years ago - after another faintly draining date with Myra, Eddie flipped on the TV, surfing through late night talk shows to distract himself from his own spiraling thoughts. With the sound turned down low, Eddie stalled for a moment when the channel flicked over to reveal a dark haired, unkempt man in glasses wearing criminally mismatched clothes. Eddie was so caught up in how instantaneously annoyed he was by the hideous Hawaiian shirt that it took longer than it should have for him to realize what he was looking at.</p><p>The man was a comedian reciting his standup, sheepishly looking up his glasses like he had snuck onto the stage and was expecting to be evicted at any moment. The first few jokes Eddie tuned in for were utterly lost to the hard, inexplicable pounding of his own heart and Eddie distantly wondered if he was having a panic attack or if he was actually going into cardiac arrest.</p><p>‘<em>You</em>’ something deep and maybe ancient throbbed inside of Eddie’s ribcage at the sound of the man’s breathy laughter, and Eddie automatically pulled his inhaler out of his pocket but paused before lifting it to his lips, the familiar motion feeling <em>wrong </em>for the first time… ever.</p><p>Eddie watched what was left of the comedian’s set (barely a few minutes, he had tuned in halfway through) and honestly Eddie didn’t hear a fucking word of it because the guy was too fucking stupid looking and Eddie’s eyes couldn’t stop drinking him in. </p><p>He was wearing some truly awful floral short-sleeved button up and it was at least two sizes too big for him. Jesus, didn’t the asshole know his own fucking <em>size</em>? How old was he? Who let him out in front of the cameras like that?</p><p>His glasses were smudged enough that they turned partially opaque when he tilted his head and the stage lights hit him at the right angle and all Eddie could think was <em>how can that idiot see anything at all?</em> The guy probably needed a haircut too, and maybe a shower – he looked a little sweaty under the unforgiving stage lights – and a decent fucking meal wouldn’t be wasted on him either because his face had that I-think-beer-is-a-breakfast-food pallor below what was obviously a permanent five-o’clock shadow.</p><p>The jokes – once Eddie’s attention was caught by the comedian’s nasally voice and somewhat rambling cadence – were weird and annoyingly charming. Enough so Eddie got a little pissed at himself when he inadvertently snorted at a stupid one-liner. He figured it had to be the contagious effect of the laughing crowd, though why <em>anyone </em>thought this guy qualified as a comedian was a fucking mystery.</p><p>Weirder still was how Eddie kind of got the comic’s appeal, even if he didn’t want to. The guy was making some low-brow joke about a woman dumping him that segued into something about his dick but the asshole had decent timing and a certain self-deprecating vibe that worked for him.</p><p>Before Eddie was done staring at him, the talk show host – Conan – was walking over to shake the comedian’s hand, waving to the audience, and signing off. Belatedly Eddie realized he hadn’t caught the guy’s name and he panicked, pulling up the TV guide listing before the show fully wrapped.</p><p>‘<em>Richie Tozier.</em>’ A breath like a gasp left Eddie’s mouth completely unbidden.</p><p>After that it wasn’t like Eddie became a <em>fan</em> or something fucking disgusting like that. There wasn’t much to find of him during his early career – stints on talk shows, small sets on Comedy Central, random cameos in sitcoms. He was funny. <em>Sometimes</em>. It wasn’t a big deal.</p><p>Tozier blew up in the mid-2000’s – became famous enough to film a special in Chicago that aired nearly twice a week on Comedy Central and to make tabloid headlines with his erratic behavior. His humor shifted to something low-brow and targeted for a very specific and revolting dude-bro audience Eddie absolutely wasn’t a part of, his goofy mismatched outfits traded out for non-descript blazers someone else clearly picked out for him which was somehow <em>worse</em>. And his jokes always felt <em>disingenuous </em>in a way that made no fucking sense. But for some dumb reason, Eddie could never change the channel once he got a glimpse of that idiot’s stupid face.</p><p>Eventually Eddie started talking back to the screen, ripping into the oblivious comic, tearing his shitty one-liners apart. For some reason, imagining what Tozier’s responses would be - what kind of pathetic ‘your mom’ jokes he’d bite back with or what would make him laugh – was weirdly easy even though Eddie didn’t think of himself as an <em>imaginative </em>person and the exercise made that hole inside Eddie throb in a way that wasn’t all bad. And if he only indulged his weird… interest… in Richie Tozier when Myra wasn’t around, that was something he actively chose not to evaluate.</p><p>And okay, yeah, maybe one time he stood outside the 51<sup>st</sup> Street subway station for an hour because there was an ad for Richie Tozier’s new Netflix special and the slightly larger than life image of his laughing face kept rattling around Eddie’s brain like a bunch of coins in a piggy bank, the promise that if you shook it enough times, statistically something eventually had to fall back out the slot. Nothing ever did (at least not in the hour he spent gaping and annoyed, surrounded by bustling commuters) but he wound up opening a new Netflix account just for himself so he could puzzle it over on lunch breaks without having to answer weird and potentially embarrassing questions from his wife.</p><p>And so fucking what if he told Myra he was working late one night when in actuality he stopped by a cheap theater and paid cash to watch some truly horrendous movie where Richie Tozier played a bit part - total screen time amounting to less than ten minutes - Eddie vibrating in his seat while Tozier bickered amicably with the main character, feeling like the pretty-boy leading man wasn’t a fraction as funny as Richie.</p><p>It was just that every time Eddie saw that stupid fucking face and those idiotic teeth and those hideous glasses, <em>something </em>tried to fit into place in his head – like a word stuck on the tip of his tongue – and it was making him fucking <em>crazy</em>. Whatever that hole inside him was, he kept trying to fit Richie <em>fucking</em> Tozier into that empty space. ‘<em>I know you</em>’ something inside of him that wasn’t his brain kept screaming and even though he never figured it out, it hit him all over again every time that asshole wheezed out a laugh.</p><p>Now he fucking knew. Now Eddie <em>knew </em>why he had to sit and puzzle over every interview and stupid tweet like the world’s weirdest stalker. It was because Richie <em>fucking </em>Tozier had been rattling around in the empty space where his childhood memories should have been and Eddie’s brain had clung to him in the hopes he’d help piece all that shit back together. Richie had been <em>so annoying </em>he’d transcended whatever the fuck head-injury or forgotten fever erased everything else from his mind.</p><p>By the time Eddie needed to pull off the highway to get some gas, he was actually tentatively looking forward to seeing all these people he’d so strangely forgotten. His friends. Even thinking those two words made him feel better than he had in <em>a long </em>time. God, when he was a kid he’d felt like that all the time.</p><p>Knowing too well what he’d find, Eddie glanced at his phone, shoulders tensing when he saw the string of texts and calls from Myra that had been diverted while he drove. Too many really, considering he’d only been on the road for a couple of hours.</p><p>At the moment, he couldn’t handle looking at them – not with so many new/old memories taking up all the space in his brain.</p><p>After a moment of quiet, crippling debate he pulled up the Find My Friends app and stopped sharing his location with Myra. He had told her he was going to Maine but, for whatever reason, he’d intentionally neglected to name Derry. Which was for the best. The Losers were meeting up in a restaurant – a Chinese restaurant to be exact - and if Myra knew that, she’d be panicking about his allergies and dietary restrictions and fucking MSG or some shit.</p><p>And if she was keeping track of him and he didn’t answer his own phone, she’d call the restaurant and demand he be brought to a phone. She’d done it before when a meeting with a client turned into <em>lunch</em> with a client and he’d strayed from his usual route of home-work-home. He’d been <em>mortified </em>when a soft spoken waiter whispered in his ear that his wife was on the phone very insistent on speaking with him, and he had to excuse himself from the table while his boss and the representative for a high-priority account shot him curious glances.</p><p>“I can’t talk right now, Myra, I’m in the middle of a meeting,” he’d whispered into the phone at the host’s podium, very aware his boss was still watching him from across the restaurant.</p><p>“You weren’t answering my calls, Eddie,” she pressed. “Or my messages.”</p><p>“I’m <em>with a client</em>,” he seethed out from between grit teeth, hunching his shoulders away from the host who was obviously listening in.</p><p>“So you couldn’t take a second to answer <em>your wife</em>? What are you eating, Eddie? What about the lunch I made you? You know your stomach gets upset when you change up your routine.”</p><p>“I have to <em>go </em>Myra,” Eddie insisted, but she still reprimanded him for another two minutes before she allowed him to hang up.</p><p>“Everything alright, Edward?” his boss asked when Eddie rushed back to the table, his dressing-less salad looking more bleak than ever next to the pasta dishes on either side of it. “Emergency at home?”</p><p>“It’s all taken care of, sir,” Eddie evaded, hating himself more than ever for the color burning on his cheeks.</p><p>His phone vibrated again in his hand, a new flood of texts from Myra streaming in asking why he’d stopped sharing his location with her but Eddie pocketed his phone and fought off an asthma attack. He’d forgotten his inhaler somehow. He’d need to get a new one right away once he made it to Derry.</p><p>And was it fucking <em>criminal </em>to want a normal night with his estranged friends – one where he didn’t have to worry about getting reprimanded for having a drink or staying up late or eating carbs? Eddie was pretty sure the answer was no but Myra, seemingly, strongly disagreed.</p><p>Once he was back in the car, it was easier to push his New York problems away, still hung up on Derry and the mystery of the Losers and the childhood he’d forgotten. Because now that names and faces were slotting more clearly into place, Eddie realized it wasn’t just Richie Tozier who inspired that strange, dysmorphic feeling like two contrasting facts were trying to lay over each other in his head. It happened every time he passed one of Bill Denborough’s books at a magazine stand, the name standing out bright and insistent like a spotlight was shining down from the universe itself, the letters bold and attention grabbing even if his novels were relegated to a crowded shelf.</p><p>Eddie wound up collecting every book Denborough had ever published, hiding them in a box in his home office (Myra didn’t approve of horror or violence of any kind, especially the graphic depictions Bill Denborough was famous for and would have thrown them away if she found them). Even though he hated the books themselves and wound up pacing in agitation over every bad ending, sometimes he swore he could hear someone else reading the words aloud to him in a young, careful, soft voice that painted images in Eddie’s mind even if it occasionally stumbled over letters.</p><p>Every once in a while, Eddie would pull out the box and flip the most recent book open (he never deigned to <em>re-</em>read any of the books, they really weren’t his favorites, not even close, but he couldn’t throw them away either) just to catch a glimpse of the photo of the author on the back coverlet. Handsome and kind-featured with a distant gaze, nothing like what you’d guess the man would look like knowing he’d written books about sentient murder cars and a hotel that ate people. And again that fucking echo of ‘<em>I know you</em>’ would swirl in Eddie’s head, a little less insistent than the one that literally shouted ‘<em>Richie Tozier!</em>’ suddenly and relentlessly, especially when Eddie was halfway between sleep and wakefulness, but still present none the less.</p><p>One time, he’d gotten that same stab of recognition when he glanced up at whatever Myra was watching – some news report on a big-time fashion show – and a red-headed woman sitting in the front row caught his attention even though she was relatively small in frame and dimly lit by the overhead lights directed towards the sashaying models on the runway. Like a dumb-shit, Eddie had stood transfixed for a moment before he raised a finger to point her out and ask, “Who’s that?”</p><p>“I don’t know, some designer, probably,” Myra answered. Then her eyes narrowed and her voice went frosty when she demanded to know, “<em>Why</em>?”</p><p>They fought about it – or rather Myra interrogated him for asking about the red-headed woman and got all condescending when he couldn’t give her a better answer than, “I don’t know, I’m sorry, she just looked familiar.”</p><p>“You think she’s <em>pretty</em>, don’t you Eddie?” Myra had simpered, looking at Eddie with so much pity, and Eddie had no idea how to respond to that because he <em>did </em>think the red-headed woman was pretty – you’d have to be <em>blind </em>to disagree - but that wasn’t the fucking point. “Eddie-bear, pretty women like that wind up with handsome men so what’s the use in looking?”</p><p>“I’m not <em>looking</em>, I just thought –”</p><p>“A woman like that would only hurt you, Eddie-bear,” Myra spoke over him and Eddie regretted ever saying anything about it at all and was somehow <em>triply </em>relieved Myra didn’t have access to his secret Netflix account – the one he used specifically to watch Richie Tozier’s stand up specials and the few movies he made guest appearances in – even though that was completely unrelated.</p><p>With the new wave of sticky half-formed memories trying to crawl back into his brain, Eddie now understood why he’d begrudgingly consume every one of Bill’s initially brilliant but aborted books and why Eddie had spent an hour googling ‘red-headed fashion designer’ guiltily in an incognito tab at work or why he couldn’t pry his eyes off Richie Tozier’s atrocious comedy acts, his own mouth running like he wanted to verbally spar with the person on the other fucking side of the screen.</p><p>Those were his <em>friends</em>. A part of him had known, a part of him <em>hadn’t </em>forgotten. And what the fuck was up with that? Was that <em>normal</em>? Somehow Eddie didn’t think so.</p><p>But, horribly, <em>embarrassingly</em>, it was stupidly relieving to know that at one point, at least, Eddie Kasprak had known friendship. He ached with it, longing for that thing he’d somehow lost. Those youthful days of bike riding and fucking around and fighting with Richie just to get a rise out of him, just to see if he could one-up him, just to keep the stupid asshole on his toes.</p><p>True, there was some other strange emotion – a bone-deep dread that permeated his memories like an oily film on top of still water – but the brightness of days spent laughing and having fun and loving people with his entire being gave that oily film an iridescent shine.</p><p>So yeah, okay, his heart was pounding when he passed through Portland, Maine. And his palms were sweating against the steering wheel when he drove past the ‘<em>Welcome to Derry</em>’ sign. But his <em>friends </em>were on the other side of his misplaced terror, he was sure of it, and his heart kept tugging him towards them.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p><em>Eddie</em>.</p><p>Holy shit what the fuck, what the fuck, <em>what the fuck</em>?!</p><p>Shoved into the end seat in a row of conjoined chairs in a mercifully under-populated corner of the airport, Richie sat gnawing his fingernails down to stubs. His knee kept bouncing erratically, shaking the whole bench, earning him a pointed stare from a woman in a smart business suit on the other end, but he didn’t have the mental or emotional capacity to give a single fuck.</p><p><em>Eddie</em>.</p><p>What the fuck was Richie doing? Derry? Fucking <em>Maine</em>? Why the fuck was he going to Maine? It was a garbage state and a garbage town and Richie had a show in Reno in <em>two days </em>so he really should be waiting for a flight to Nevada instead of Bumblefuck Maine.</p><p><em>Eddie</em>, something whispered from deep inside him, an answer to all his questions, and if Richie thought smashing his head against the wall would help him better parse out <em>whatever the fuck </em>was going on inside there, he’d do it in an instant. <em>Eddie</em>, his heartbeat thumped again in solidarity.</p><p>It was just a name. A name with no face or memories attached. But Richie could <em>feel </em>the importance lurking under whatever veil he’d thrown over that part of himself like <em>Eddie </em>was a detonator and attached to the other end of the wire was a bomb. </p><p>If Richie were smart, he’d leave that detonator the fuck alone, shove it aside, maybe wait until he was in his therapist’s office before he even<em> thought</em> about looking at it. But he <em>wasn’t </em>smart, never fucking had been, so instead he kept jamming his finger down on the button like Wile E. Coyote, comically unaware the wire led to a pile of dynamite buried under his own feet.</p><p>‘<em>Eddie Eddie Bo-Beddie,</em>’ Richie chanted in his head, more than a little manic, ‘<em>Eddie Spaghetti Cappelletti.</em>’</p><p>Whoever the fuck <em>Eddie </em>was, it wasn’t him on the phone calling to say “<em>Come home</em>,” before Richie spewed chunks and bombed on stage – no, it was some guy Richie only vaguely remembered, a townie he used to run around with when he was a kid or something – but hearing the unfamiliar but oddly <em>right-sounding</em> (<em>wtf</em>?) deep tones of Mike’s voice had unlocked something in Richie that immediately started <em>screaming</em>.</p><p><em>Eddie</em>.</p><p>God, repression was such a <em>bitch</em>. Richie was going to have to pay his therapist triple her rate just to put up with what would no doubt be one helluva meltdown. Because shit. Whoever <em>Eddie</em> was, how deep had Richie buried him? Three hours ago if he heard the name ‘<em>Eddie</em>’ he’d ask ‘<em>Murphy or Van Halen</em>?’</p><p><em>Kaspbrak</em> his brain almost cheerfully supplied without warning and Richie’s whole chest pulsed with an unmistakable kind of longing so intense he nearly twitched out of his chair.</p><p><em>Who the fuck is Eddie Kaspbrak</em>? And if he meant so much to Richie – which seriously, Richie’s entire nervous system was fucking <em>alive </em>so he had to mean <em>something</em> – why couldn’t he remember him? Why would Richie <em>repress </em>him?</p><p>Well, okay, he had a pretty good idea what the whole repression thing might have to do with, considering the Pavlovian sweaty palms, the accelerated heart rate, and bizarre half-stiffy he’d sprung mid panic attack <em>in the fucking airport</em>. Popping a boner in the airport was a new achievement and Richie was gaining massive amounts of Creep XP he <em>really</em> didn’t need.</p><p>But what the actual fuck? If he was all fucked up over - what? a childhood crush? - why did the name <em>Eddie Kaspbrak </em>make him so insanely, stupidly <em>happy.</em></p><p>“Now boarding first class passengers and active-duty military passengers,” a static-y voice announced overhead and Richie lurched to his feet. Holy shit he needed a drink. Somehow that thought hadn’t occurred to him yet – shocking because he knew every hotspot to down a few whiskeys in almost every airport across the country and he always beelined to the nearest watering hole the second he was through security – but for once his thoughts had overridden the instinctual urge to drown himself in booze.</p><p>On autopilot, he shot the flight attendant scanning his ticket a forced-friendly smile and barreled down the jet bridge, his footsteps thunderous and loud. He mumbled something to the steward at the front of the plane that might pass as a greeting, found his seat, and crammed himself into it as if he could expedite the boarding process by sheer force of will. When that didn’t work, when the cabin filled with other passengers painfully slowly, Richie shoved his duffel under the seat in front of him and tried to find a position that didn’t pretzel his long legs, even with the extra space of first class.</p><p>Suddenly, <em>vividly</em>, Richie remembered tucking his legs behind the passenger seat of a meticulously cared for 1984 Toyota Corolla and he fought off an unexpected wave of nausea, pushing his glasses up to his forehead to rub furiously at his eyes.</p><p>But in the darkness behind his eyelids, it was like he was there again. Surrounded by people, <em>by friends</em>, kids he loved so hard his heart was bursting with it. Happy and content in a way Richie Tozier never was and thought he never had been.</p><p>Like he was peeking through fogged glass, it slowly came back to him. He and his friends and the first time they’d all shoved into a car together with one of them behind the wheel. It felt like freedom and friendship and adulthood all rolled up in one jubilant bubble of endless laughter, the sensation so intense Richie was high on it nearly thirty years later.</p><p>His friends were blurry still, faceless forms even as he pressed up close against someone smushed into the middle seat, practically every ounce of space taken up by Tetris-ing seven teenagers into a compact car. A driver with curly hair. Two kids – a boy and a girl – shoved together in the front seat. Two other boys packed in shoulder to shoulder next to Richie in the back.</p><p>And Eddie was there – crystal fucking clear, more radiant than the goddamn sun. A noise like a sob punched out of Richie’s chest as liquid pooled in the creases of his eyelids.</p><p><em>Eddie Kaspbrak</em>. Oh god, Eddie. Still delightfully small even though Richie had spazzed his way out the other side of another unfortunate growth spurt and felt like nothing but banged elbows and bruised knees. Standing in the open space of Richie’s propped door, tiny shorts, fists on his hips, glowering in that way that made Richie fucking <em>giddy</em>, Eddie Kaspbrak’s full attention <em>impaled</em> Richie and he wanted to bask in that furious gaze forever like a cat in a sunbeam.</p><p>“Saved you a seat, Eds,” Richie goaded, patting his legs, absolutely <em>pleading </em>in his head ‘<em>sit on my lap sit on my lap sit on my lap</em>.’ “Finest seat in the house!” he bellowed in something that maybe passed as a British Voice if you’d never heard one before. The kids around him groaned.</p><p>God, if Richie could annoy people into loving him, he’d be a popular man.</p><p>“That was fucking terrible now <em>scootch over</em> asshole I’m not fucking <em>sitting </em>on you,” Eddie snapped back in one long breath and Richie internally swooned.</p><p>But Richie knew this game. It was the same game they always played, Richie’s favorite game of all time - push/pull, shove/tug. The best part was that Eddie was <em>going </em>to wind up in Richie’s lap but he had to pretend he hated it first because he was nothing if not a spiteful little contrarian. Richie couldn’t fucking get enough.</p><p>The kids next to him made a point of shifting around and belatedly Mike came into focus – <em>oh fuck! perfect, beautiful Mike</em> - sitting in the middle seat and smiling in a bemused sort of way, the same way he always smiled when Richie and Eddie went at it. And if Mike didn’t try too hard to make room for Eddie, dark eyes finding Richie’s with something a little conspiratorial, Richie wasn’t about to complain even if another part of him wanted to die.</p><p>As an adult, the idea that <em>someone knew </em>made Richie reach frantically for the puke bag tucked in the seat-pouch in front of him, the stranger sitting next to him in the aisle seat stealing a glance at him before recoiling – and objectively Richie knew it was probably more to do with the whole maybe-gonna-hurl thing than knowing he was… whatever… but the revulsion fit perfectly in with his own thoughts.</p><p>The weirder thought that followed - the ‘<em>it’s okay if Mike knows, he’d never hurt me</em>’ - made much less sense and Richie’s brain bluescreened for a moment before he shook open the puke bag and dug back into his memory.</p><p>On Mike’s other side, Ben – <em>Ben! Benny-boy! Ben! </em>- was smiling too, looking a tinge self-conscious, probably a weight thing, hyperaware of the space he took up and hating himself for it even though Richie loved every inch of him.</p><p>The three of them made a big show of shifting around and, to no one’s surprise, there was exactly the same lack of space as there had been a minute ago. Everyone except Eddie had stretched out in the last year, Mike broadening too with all his farm chores, so the Corolla was packed to the fucking gills. And since Eddie was still so petite (and the opportunities for Richie to pick him up, manhandle him, or wrestle him had multiplied with their size difference), he had been unanimously voted the Permanent Designated Lap-Sitter for situations exactly like this.</p><p>And if Richie would literally fight tooth and nail to be the designated <em>lap</em>, no one else seemed to mind that.</p><p>“Come on Eddie, we’ll be l-late for the m-m-movie,” Bill -<em> Billy, Big Bill, holy fuck Bill - </em>insisted from the front seat, bless his fucking soul, because not a single one of them could ever put up a fight against him, especially not Eddie who treated Bill like the big brother he never had. Richie might have been a little jealous about Eddie’s hero-worshipping – okay maybe <em>a lot </em>jealous sometimes – but Richie had a bit of that for Bill too, the same way <em>everyone </em>did.</p><p>Predictably, Eddie huffed and bitched but crawled into the car, elbowing Richie at least three times before he found a place to shove his legs and planted his bony ass on Richie’s lap.</p><p>And yeah, okay, Richie was <em>fifteen</em>. And the boy he liked was <em>on his lap</em>. And half the time if the wind blew the wrong way, Richie would spring a boner. So if his dick was at half-mast it wasn’t exactly a surprise and he was <em>pretty </em>sure his jeans were baggy enough that it wasn’t, like, <em>pressing</em> against Eddie in a way that would be noticeable. Hopefully. Jesus fuck <em>hopefully</em>.</p><p>It helped that Eddie immediately started squirming like a maniac (and by ‘<em>helped</em>’ Richie actually meant ‘<em>drove him fucking crazy</em>’ but shit, it felt <em>really</em> good and it wasn’t like his dick was getting any other action beside his own hand so…).</p><p>“Buckle us in, fucknut,” Eddie demanded, passing off the seatbelt while Richie furiously thought about baseball and Mrs. Chesney’s super saggy tits and that time Eddie threw up macaroni across his desk in the second grade. It helped. A little. He breathed out a slightly shaky breath and tried not to notice the way it stirred the curls behind Eddie’s ears. <em>Fuck</em>.</p><p>Richie took the seatbelt and, using the excuse of settling it better across Eddie’s chest, wrapped an arm around the little weasel in his lap and strained to buckle them both in.</p><p>“It’s not long enough, Eds,” Richie told him, because even with Mike helping them out, the seatbelt just didn’t have the length to reach the hub.</p><p>“Yes it fucking is just suck in, <em>you sasquatch</em>,” Eddie bit back, shifting even further into Richie’s lap, practically plastering himself to Richie’s chest, and Richie had to turn his face to the ceiling and breath out a long stabilizing exhale torn somewhere between panic and euphoria. “Stanley, <em>don’t you dare start driving until I’m buckled in</em>!” Eddie snapped when Stan’s hand strayed towards the gear shift.</p><p><em>Stanley!</em> With a jolt that might have been the plane taking off the runway, Richie let out a breathy laugh as Stan came into focus. Expression flat with just a tinge of sarcasm, a weirdly-parental glare hefted in their direction like Richie and Eddie were great disappointments which, to be fair, Richie <em>absolutely was</em>.</p><p>Stan, as the oldest and wisest of them, was the first to get a driver’s license and the first to get a car because <em>of course he was</em>, the man was born a senior citizen. And even though he lived in perpetual fear of getting pulled over for having way too many teenagers in his car, he always looked so fucking smug driving them around town all bundled up together and he <em>never</em> kicked any of them out (except for the once when Richie tried to get in the car with a full bowl of cereal and Stan literally shoved Richie out the door and onto the grass, slopping milk and Honeycombs all down Richie’s shirt, which again, <em>fair</em>).</p><p>“Eddie, it’s not gonna reach,” Mikey hummed, almost apologetically. And Richie, for the first time since it happened, <em>hated</em> how huge he’d suddenly sprung up because there was no way Eddie was going to consent to riding in a car without a seatbelt – not after that fucking horror show video they’d played in Drivers Ed with all the super-intensely-graphic car accident footage – and Richie was just about ready to offer to hop out and ride his bike to the theater, he could probably still make it before the previews were over if he really put his mind to it, when Eddie huffed and snatched the seatbelt back from Mike.</p><p>“Ugh, fine, Richie, buckle in,” he ordered in exactly the tone that made Richie a little stupid and a lot in love. When Richie didn’t reach to take the seatbelt from Eddie, he squiggled around some more, (<em>okay wow</em>) passing the seatbelt across Richie’s chest himself and handing it off to Mike who clicked it into place.</p><p>Then Eddie’s hands were on Richie’s wrists and – <em>holy fuck</em> – he was manually wrapping Richie’s arms around his stomach in a bear hug.</p><p>“Wha –” Richie super intelligently intoned, his face on fucking <em>fire</em>. Bev’s curious green gaze – <em>oh! Beverly Marsh!</em> - peeked over the front seat and Richie was pretty sure he had to look like a fucking bush baby for how huge his eyes were bugging out of his head. When he automatically loosened his grip on Eddie’s waist, too self-conscious to hold him as tight as he desperately wanted to, Eddie squawked and Richie shifted in his seat fucking <em>praying </em>Eddie was too distracted to notice the stiffy crammed under his ass.</p><p>And Bev saw it all, just like she <em>always </em>did that sneaky minx, the corners of her eyes crinkling in delight before she turned back and awkwardly let Bill wrap his arm around her on the pretense of getting comfortable. The absolute fucking hypocrite.</p><p>And again, somehow the panic that Adult Richie felt anytime someone glanced at him with even a <em>fraction </em>of that knowing-ness was utterly absent. Bev wouldn’t hurt him either. None of these kids would. Richie was safe with them. <em>What the fuck had happened to him since then?</em></p><p>“Don’t you fucking <em>dare</em>, Rich!” Eddie snapped as Richie’s arms loosened around him because he was dying a little at the feel of Eddie’s thin waist and the way his abdomen shifted underneath his hands when he moved. “You have to hold on tight.” To emphasize his point, Eddie’s hands covered Richie’s, guiding them until Richie was gripping his own elbows, Eddie tucked so goddamn perfectly in the circle of his arms Richie could’ve cried.</p><p>“One Tozier Seatbelt, coming up,” Richie sing-songed, his voice only <em>slightly </em>cracking, trying to ingrain in his memory <em>forever </em>(<em>HA!</em>) the way Eddie relaxed into his arms, settling himself comfortably when Richie tugged him even closer.</p><p>“If we get in an accident and I fly out the fucking windshield, I’ll haunt you forever, dickbag,” Eddie said smugly and they were mashed so tightly together Richie could <em>feel </em>Eddie’s words vibrating against his chest.</p><p>“If you wanted to watch me fuck your mom, you only had to ask,” Richie’s mouth answered automatically and Eddie writhed in barely restrained anger.</p><p>“Fucking gross, dude. And <em>as if</em> you get any action that isn’t your own fucking fist,” Eddie rebounded, and if Richie started laughing super hard it was because he was currently the closest to second base he’d ever come in his entire life and the irony was not lost on him.</p><p>And Richie was so <em>so </em>happy. Stupidly happy. Even with his heart pounding and Eddie’s bony ass digging into his thighs and too much blood hanging out south of the border, he felt <em>at peace </em>in the way he only ever did when the Losers were all together.</p><p><em>The Losers! </em>Holy fuck, his precious Losers! Jesus, once upon a time, Richie had <em>belonged</em> with people but then he’d forgotten all about them. What the fuck was wrong with him? Why had he repressed the Losers?</p><p>Eddie jabbered the whole way to the theater because <em>of course </em>he did and some part of Richie’s brain was online enough to jabber back at all the right points – thank <em>fuck</em> – because he was mostly absorbed in pressing his face between Eddie’s shoulder blades (something he could do without it being too weird because <em>where else </em>was he supposed to put his face?) and inhaling the laundry/bleach/perpetual summer smell of Eddie’s shirt.</p><p>And if Stan, catching Richie’s eyes in the rearview mirror, ‘accidentally’ made a wrong turn and took them around three extra blocks before finding the street to take them to the theater, that was because Stan was the absolute <em>best</em> friend a guy could have, no fucking competition in the world.</p><p>Somewhere 30,000 feet over middle-America, Richie let out a deep exhale, one that just kept coming, like he’d been holding in all the anxious inhales of twenty-something years and finally got to let them go. He was very grateful it came in the form of a big sigh and not a bunch of vomit.</p><p>Seriously, Richie’s therapist was gonna fucking <em>flip</em>. In his sessions, they’d been circling the whole <em>repression</em> thing ever since she asked about his childhood in their very first hour together and Richie stared into space for a solid three minutes and answered “I... don’t remem<em>ber</em>???” his voice going all high and weird at the end.</p><p>He’d started seeing her in his late twenties because it wound up written into his contract with his manager after the second time he OD-ed and woke up in the hospital, maybe or maybe not on purpose. She didn’t laugh at most of his jokes and liked pointing out that he used humor to deflect (<em>but like, yeah, obviously, what the fuck else was he supposed to do</em>?) and she clearly got frustrated with him for not opening up or whatever but he kept paying her and she kept letting him in her office so she probably didn’t entirely hate him. And he had less problems with drugs since he started seeing her. Not <em>no </em>problems with drugs but hey, progress was progress. </p><p>Not that he ever talked to his therapist about… that stuff. <em>His sexuality</em>. Whatever. She might suspect something; presumably she went to therapy school so who knew what kind of Jedi mind tricks she knew, but Richie never talked about it and it wasn’t like he was in <em>any </em>kind of relationship at the moment so… yeah. It didn’t come up. Because Richie never brought it up. Because <em>why would he</em>?</p><p>But some of <em>this</em> stuff he might mention in his next session. Maybe not <em>Eddie</em> but the rest of it. It was pretty wild getting some of his memories back. Richie long ago figured they were gone for good - in fact, he’d been banking on it. Some part of him (probably whatever part of him crammed all that shit way down where he wouldn’t have to look at it in the first place) didn’t <em>want</em> those memories back. He repressed them for a reason right?</p><p>And even though he had Eddie now - had all the Losers - and that felt good and right and <em>complete </em>in a way that was probably really pathetic considering these were people he hadn’t seen in fucking <em>decades</em>, there was an undercurrent of fear overlapping that happiness, fear that permeated all the way down to his atoms, the kind that had Richie questioning how hard it would be to pry open one of the emergency exits and whether he’d be unconscious before he hit the ground.</p><p>When Richie finally snapped out of his fugue state/memory relapse, it was to discover he was somehow mid-fucking-conversation with a flight attendant. “- get you anything, Mr. Tozier?” the dude was asking, formal and courteous while Richie fought down another inexplicable wave of nausea.</p><p>“Ugh, Mr. Tozier was the guy that fucked my mom,” Richie said automatically, the same cliché joke he always pulled out when anyone deeply unsettled him by addressing him as <em>mister</em>. Fucking gross. “And – uh – I’ll take all the alcohol you are legally allowed to give me.”</p><p>The flight attendant smirked, private and knowing. “Good one, Richie,” he said and suddenly Richie questioned whether he knew <em>this </em>guy too and had somehow repressed him along with the rest of the Losers. God, how many fucking people had been rattling around in his head all this time? “I’m a big fan of your Netflix special, by the way,” the flight attendant added and then it clicked.</p><p>Oh. <em>Ohhhhhh. </em>He <em>recognized</em> Richie – Richie Tozier, <em>the comedian</em>. Richie Tozier, the super straight manchild-next-door who occasionally appeared on TV cracking dick jokes; not Richie Tozier, the awkward teenager boiling with a secret, gay, Jupiter-sized crush on his friend. And that meant the flight attendant thought he was joking because Richie made jokes <em>for a living</em> and was supposed to be a well-adjusted, functioning adult instead of… whatever the fuck he was.</p><p>So Richie clarified, “I’ll take a whiskey and a cup of ice, and please, <em>for the love of fuck</em>, keep the whiskey coming until I’m unconscious on the floor.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I got sucked into the Reddie hole and somehow wound up writing this thing that is probably entirely too long.  The rating is <i>definitely</i> going up in later chapters, FYI, but a lot of this is fluff and domestic shit and winding conversations and two forty year old men figuring out how to be in love so if that's your jam, buckle the fuck in.</p><p>🤍🤍🤍</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter Two</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: injuries and blood, hospitals, dealing with a dead body in a way that isn't exactly legal, Myra's gaslighting</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Richie walked into the Jade of the Orient, the scene went something like this:</p><p class="scriptpg">INT. RESTAURANT – NIGHT</p><p class="scriptpg">RICHIE (forty and exuding <em>mediocre shlub </em>like it was going out of style) follows his upsettingly attractive, long-lost friends into a secluded back room.</p><p class="scriptpg">He spots EDDIE across a table (still small, face stuck in a perma-frown, <em>unbearably </em>adorable even after all this time) and cartoon hearts blast out of Richie’s eyes like he’s Bugs fucking Bunny.</p><p class="scriptpg">Richie, an idiot to his core, picks up a mallet and smashes it into the kitschy gong guarding the room because he needs to be LOUD and VISIBLE and he needs Eddie to fucking look at him or he’ll immediately keel over and die.</p><p> </p><p class="scriptpg">RICHIE</p><p class="scriptpg">This meeting of the Loser’s</p><p class="scriptpg">Club has officially begun!</p><p class="scriptpg"> </p><p class="scriptpg">Eddie’s precious fucking face turns and lights up in recognition. He takes in BEV (radiant), Ben (cut like a goddamn diamond), and Richie (deeply regretting not caring more about his appearance for the last thirty years).</p><p> </p><p class="scriptpg">Eddie</p><p class="scriptpg">Aw, look at these guys.</p><p> </p><p class="scriptpg">So Richie mimes a poor-taste joke about Ben’s transformation into a super-hunk thinking, ‘<em>Look at me, please Eddie, never stop looking at me</em>.’</p><p>And everything after that sucked.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Unexpectedly, Richie discovered there were pros and cons to getting stuck in the Deadlights. </p><p>To be more exact, there were <em>multitudinous</em> cons and exactly one single solitary pro.</p><p>The cons list included (but was not limited to) being rudely interrupted mid-joke, coming over blind at a truly inopportune moment, the sudden and irrefutable existence of <em>magic</em> apparently, having every speck of conscious thinking sucked out his pores, rocketed into deep space, and then shoved back into a body that felt significantly too small for it, falling twenty feet to land hard on an ass too old for that kind of shit, and of course the psychological trauma of repeatedly bearing witness to the impalement and subsequent death of the recently-remembered love of Richie’s life.</p><p>The pros list, on the other hand, was one measly item long but it reached for fucking gold because being sucked into the Deadlights meant this: When Eddie, looking adorably proud of himself and maybe a little preemptively victorious, leaned over Richie and said, “Hey Richie, listen, I think I got It, man,” Richie lunged at him and <em>rolled</em>.</p><p>“<em>What the fuck</em>, asshole, I just saved your life!” Eddie griped from where he lay flattened under Richie, already opening his mouth to keep complaining when Richie was unexpectedly mashed down on top of him like a spatula pressing on a grilled cheese.</p><p>Something <em>scraped </em>up the length of Richie’s back and his vision almost completely whited out, the breath knocked out of both of them in gasps as they were smushed against the cave floor. Then the pressure was gone and Eddie took a deep breath while Richie shuddered out a “<em>ggghaaa</em>,” that sounded pretty fucking lame when he was trying to heroically save Eddie’s life.</p><p>The agony came a moment later (<em>oh hello</em>), the precious delay as his synapses caught up with the feedback from his pain receptors not nearly as long a reprieve as Richie would have hoped for but pain was manageable so long as Eddie Kaspbrak was still <em>alive</em>.</p><p>Richie opened his mouth and the name, “<em>Eddie</em>,” punched out of him like a prayer, relief and giddiness threatening to start him sobbing because Eddie was, in fact, still blinking underneath him in shock, face unmarred by blood or pain – <em>so </em>different from that awful moue of horror Richie had blankly stared at a thousand million times in the deadlights – that he genuinely thought about tipping forward and kissing that angry frown just to feel the fucking difference.</p><p>A chorus of shouting overlaid the Pennywise-spider monster’s gloating cackle and the sound snapped Richie out of his stupor, reminding him there’d be plenty of time for sobbing (and fantasizing about kissing) later after he did his fucking damnedest to make sure Eddie and all the rest of the Losers stayed the fuck alive.</p><p>And shit, yeah, the clown got him pretty good; the pain was <em>intense and unprecedented.</em> Richie’s back was a searing plane of agony and if he weren’t already completely supine on top of Eddie, he definitely would have collapsed but hey, at least he got to cop the world’s unsexist feel. Teenage Richie would have given a pinky finger for this kind of full body action.</p><p>And for some reason (because Richie was and always would be worthy of the name Trashmouth and that fundamentally meant saying exactly the worst thing at exactly the worst time) Richie looked down into the shocked eyes of the man he loved more than anything and groaned, “You come here often?”</p><p>Eddie blinked again, his face transforming into one of his patented Eddie Kaspbrak Looks, the same one he gave Richie often when they were kids, the one that said ‘<em>you are an idiot and we will discuss exactly how much of an idiot you are once we aren’t </em>sitting in the middle of Geometry class<em>, fucknut</em>.’ Richie debated again kissing Eddie on his frowny mouth but he could sense It winding up for another strike behind him.</p><p>“Nevermind,” he grit out instead, “we gotta move, like, <em>now</em>.”</p><p>“<em>No shit, asshole</em>,” Eddie snapped, both of them flinching away when Pennywise’s claw arm slammed into the ground next to them, dangerously close to Eddie’s jacket sleeve.</p><p>Richie’s right arm refused to help him clamor unsteadily to his feet but Eddie was already standing, two firm hands hauling Richie up by a grip on his jacket collar, dragging him through the thin hole in the cavern behind them, the rest of the Losers scurrying in afterwards.</p><p>And <em>wow</em> that was really <em>a lot</em> of pain. Richie’s arm was pretty much completely offline but his shoulder felt <em>wrong </em>in a way that couldn’t possibly be good and his entire back was on fire. A glance down told him his shoulder was probably dislocated, judging from the slightly off look of it - the angle reminiscent of the time Richie fell off a first floor balcony and landed on his arm. That time he'd been too wasted to feel much of anything at all except humor. Richie wished he had that same physical disconnect now because wow. Turns out a dislocated shoulder <em>hurt</em>.</p><p>If Richie had any food in him, he’d probably be upchucking all the way down the stone decline.</p><p>“Oh fuck,” Richie mumbled nonsensically, cradling his fucked up arm and automatically turning to do a headcount on the Losers hurrying towards him. One, two, three, four, Eddie makes five.</p><p>No Stan. <em>Fuck.</em> But he’d think about that later.</p><p>“What the fuck do we do?” Eddie asked, the question directed towards Bill who was half-sliding down the stony incline. Richie’s full attention, as always, was on Eddie while his face did that constipated twist of concerned-anger Richie had always thought was super fucking adorable, even more so now Eddie was forty and had somehow gotten <em>even cuter</em>. Eddie, thankfully, didn’t seem to be sporting any kind of injury so whatever the fuck was going on with Richie’s back was extra worth it. Perhaps sensing Richie’s unabashed stare, Eddie scowled at the place Richie gingerly gripped his own elbow, hugging it to his chest. “What’s wrong with your arm?”</p><p>Richie had no fucking clue except that everything hurt but he was spared having to answer by Bev practically colliding with him, Ben right behind her. “Richie! Shit, did It get you?” she demanded, grabbing him by the shoulders and spinning him around. Richie’s vision blurred, his shoulder screaming in protest.</p><p>“<em>HOLY FUCK</em>,” Eddie gasped when he got sight of whatever was going on back there which probably wasn’t a <em>great </em>sign but whatever. Eddie was alive. Everyone else was too. This was a win. No matter what happened to Richie, <em>this was a fucking win</em>.</p><p>“We have to get him out of here, we gotta <em>go</em>,” Eddie started, words breaking the sound barrier as they flew out of his mouth, flat hand cutting the air decisively. “We need to take Richie to the hospital, that’s way too much fucking blood, and who the fuck knows what diseases that claw thing is carrying – It lives in a <em>sewer</em> for god’s sake – <em>FUCK </em>look at his shoulder, we gotta get him <em>the fuck</em> out of here, <em>now</em>.”</p><p>At the mention of blood, Richie realized he could feel it; hot liquid pooling down his back and soaking his jeans and dripping stickily down the backs of his legs. Oh good, that was blood. Honestly he’d been a little worried he was pissing himself but somehow blood seemed less embarrassing.</p><p>“H-How, Eddie?” Bill snapped, and Richie didn’t super love his tone but it was a stressful situation and he was too busy bleeding and maybe starting to pass out to defend Eddie’s honor and get punched in the face like he did when he was thirteen.</p><p>“There’s gotta be a way,” Mike chimed in, his broad, comforting hands gently guiding Richie to sit down on the rock ledge. Richie wasn’t totally sure he’d be able to stand again if his legs unlocked but he was also physically incapable of resisting Mike’s guidance.</p><p>The clown chose that moment to shout down, “I can smell your fear, Losers! Come out, come out and play!”</p><p>“No thank you!” Richie shouted back, a little deliriously, and the scraping claws paused their brutal, useless stabbing for a moment before kicking back up into gear.</p><p>Richie knew, objectively, there was some important conversation going on around him but everything had kind of faded to a far off mumbling the same way the adults talked in Charlie Brown. He was too busy thinking about the <em>weirdest </em>fucking shit (maybe his brain misfiring from all the panic and blood loss). He was thinking about It, about the terror of being young and gay in a small town where hate crimes were a rite of passage, of being just as scared <em>if not more so </em>of being outed by a child-eating clown than of being one of those eaten children. He was thinking about finding just the smallest bit of safety and understanding with his friends and having it ripped away from him by an alien too afraid to die.</p><p>“<em>Eds</em>?” Richie said and Eddie was beside him in an instant, tearing off his sweater, hands working fast and confident while he eased Richie’s bad arm up and somehow worked some weird first-aid magic to turn his sweater into a sling. Richie’s shoulder was mostly numb now and a little tingly. His back still hurt but that was sliding further away in his thoughts – and oh, he was really fucking cold all of a sudden. “Is anyone else shivering? No? Just me?”</p><p>“You’re going into shock, asshole,” Eddie answered immediately before speaking up to the group. “I – I had my hands around his neck. The leper. I was choking him, I could <em>feel </em>him dying.” Eddie dropped his eyes back down to Richie, his brow furrowed. “I made him small.”</p><p>Then the Losers were talking again but Richie tuned that out cause Eddie was still there, gripping Richie’s good elbow like he’d never let him go and Richie really<em> really </em>hoped that was true. If they both made it out of this, Richie was going to glue himself to Eddie’s side and stay there until Eddie filed a restraining order.</p><p>“Okay come on, buddy, up you get,” Eddie said after a questionable amount of time, slotting under Richie’s undamaged arm and helping him to his feet. Richie grabbed a fistful of Eddie’s t-shirt and clung on, dizzy. “I’m gonna get you out of here.”</p><p>“Can’t miss –” Richie paused to groan in agony, “- my hot date with your mom.”</p><p>Eddie huffed out a noise that sounded an awful lot like a sympathy laugh but fuck it, Richie would take that. He wasn’t sure how many more laughs he’d get to hear before his vision fully tunneled to black.</p><p>“Yeah yeah, asshole,” Eddie grumbled, Richie grimacing when Ben’s steadying hand on his back strayed too close to whatever the fuck was going on that hurt so bad. “I’ll fucking kill you if you stand her up.”</p><p>Belatedly it became clear to Richie that his friends were trying to lure It away from where Richie and Eddie hid behind an outcropping in some sort of attempt to trick It into a smaller cavern. To be fair, Richie wasn’t on Team Coming Up With A Plan, he was on Team Bleeding A Lot and man, he was really nailing that one. It wasn’t until Eddie started cursing in an impressively steady stream while he watched the others scurry away from It’s many claw arms that Richie forced himself to shake off the debilitating pain and delirium.</p><p>“We gotta help them,” Richie said, blinking away the darkening edges of his vision to lurch forwards.</p><p>“Richie, you’re <em>really</em> hurt,” Eddie snapped, his arm tightening around Richie’s waist, his other hand pressed against Richie’s sternum, right over his heart. “I just got you back, fucknut, do you really want to <em>die</em>?”</p><p>“Losers stick together,” was all Richie could come up even though his heart was bursting with love (or maybe oxygen deprivation). Luckily, that was enough for Eddie, his face screwing up in determination, and even with the whole bleeding like crazy thing going on, Richie was fucking smitten with how well Eddie still slotted under his arm. He’d been trying <em>so</em> hard not to touch.</p><p>Together (real talk: mostly under Eddie’s steam), they staggered towards their friends, joining the Losers as they retreated from the advancing clown-spider.</p><p>They made it just in time to catch It’s horrifying proclamation of, “<em>I am the eater of worlds</em>,” and honestly, for a brief moment, Richie deeply regretted putting himself and Eddie in the immediate path of that fucking clown-spider. But everyone else was there, side by side, and Richie had always been the kind of kid who would <em>absolutely </em>jump off a bridge if all his friends did too. It helped that Eddie – tough as fuck Eddie – was trembling under Richie’s arm but he wasn’t backing down, the brave little bastard.</p><p>“Not to us you’re not,” Mike said firmly and It <em>recoiled</em>. “You’re just a clown.” Man, how was Mikey <em>the best</em>?</p><p>It lunged for Bev and even though both Richie and Eddie flinched, she stood strong, stepping <em>towards</em> It to say, “You’re a weak old woman.”</p><p>“Fuck yeah, Bev,” Richie said a little weakly when It stopped mid-chomp, those heinous teeth on full display.</p><p>“<em>EATER OF WORLDS</em>!” It insisted.</p><p>“A – a headless boy!” Ben chimed in, barely dodging a skewering of his own when the clown-spider froze mid-swipe.</p><p>“A NASTY FUCKING LEPER!” Eddie shouted under Richie’s arm, practically vibrating, and Richie barked out a wild laugh that made It <em>cringe</em>.</p><p>Then Bill shouted, “IMPOSTER!” and it was like a dam snapping, understanding flooding Richie like the overflow in the Barrens after a storm. The fear that had hunted him when he was thirteen and trying not to look too long at boys, the fear that hunted him when he was <em>forty </em>and still doing the same fucking thing – that fear only had power because he <em>let </em>it.</p><p>But he wasn’t a kid anymore. He wasn’t <em>alone </em>anymore either. He wasn’t trapped in a hell-town filled with assholes that might actively try to kill him for wanting to suck a dick. He was <em>Trashmouth </em>fucking <em>Tozier.</em> Suddenly it turned out all those Comedy Central Roasts from the 00’s were worth more than the paycheck, all the times a heckler interrupted his set weren’t only crippling blows to his ego, his <em>whole childhood</em> verbally sparring with Eddie, it had all been practice for <em>this</em>.</p><p>If that clown-bitch was allergic to bullying then this was Richie’s <em>moment</em>.</p><p>“You vintage freak show, wall-eyed motherfucker!” Richie shouted elated, fucking <em>laughing</em>, absolutely giddy when two yellow eyes turned to him with a new spark of terror. “You’re just some Tim Burton, ICP-wanna-be <em>clown</em>!”</p><p>Richie’s shouting echoed through the cavern, dancing with the raised voices of his friends, louder than should be possible, louder even than the swirling pulsing thrum of the Deadlights spinning above them in their hellish spiral. And Eddie’s voice was right there alongside Richie’s, wavering but fierce, <em>so fucking fierce</em>, and Richie wanted to tell him how fucking brave he was and how strong he was and maybe ask him if he wanted to get married after this but it wasn’t the right time for that, probably.</p><p>Seemingly something of that thought must have lingered, though, because he matched Bill’s cadence where it rang out beside him and screamed, “You’re a clown! You’re a clown! I’m <em>gay</em> and you’re a fucking clown!”</p><p>Bill honest to god stumbled next to him and his pale face flashed towards Richie in his peripheral vision.</p><p>And maybe it was the blood loss or maybe Richie had hit the sweet spot of high-functioning insanity but he didn’t regret it; screaming his truth. Here with his friends he was safe. Well, maybe not <em>safe</em> – there was a giant fucking clown-monster actively trying to eat him and everyone he loved – but he didn’t want to live <em>one more fucking minute</em> enmeshed in the web of fear that goddamn clown had custom-woven for him.</p><p>“That’s right, motherfucker!” Richie crowed, absolutely <em>cackled</em>, half crazy but so fucking light, lighter than he’d ever been, so light he was fucking <em>floating</em>. “<em>I’m gay</em>! Can’t scare me with that shit anymore, cum stain! I’m so gay I’ll take your clown ass to a classy Vermont B&amp;B and kiss you on the mouth!”</p><p>At the edge of Richie’s awareness, he heard Bill snort a slightly manic, wrung out peal of laughter, and the Pennywise-spider monster shrank a solid foot and trembled.</p><p>“I’ll fucking hold your hand at Pride, clown man! I’ll put a ring on your nasty-ass glove and make a decent clown-husband out of you! That’s how fucking gay I am!” </p><p>Eddie’s terrified refrain of, “You’re a fucking leper! You’re a clown!” broke for a moment into something like a panicked giggle, his arm around Richie’s waist giving him a little shake, and Richie was sure that if Eddie let go of him, his feet would leave the ground.</p><p>“Richie!” Bill hissed, “<em>Focus</em>!” But Richie could see him laughing despite himself, the edges of his lips curling up when he turned back to It and resumed his own, “<em>You’re a clown</em>!” chant.</p><p>“Right,” Richie shouted back. Some people just couldn’t appreciate comedy. “You're a clown! You’re a clown!”</p><p>After a long day spent reliving childhood trauma and battling a sewer clown, it turned out crushing a monster’s heart with five of his best friends was <em>pretty fucking rewarding</em>, especially with Eddie’s palm curved over his fingers as the damned thing turned to ash. And if, after the decimated remains of Pennywise floated away and the Deadlights dimmed and blinked out, Richie let out an unintentional little half-sob and pressed his cheek to the top of Eddie’s head, he had earned that much, relieved when Eddie’s arm tightened around him in response.</p><p>When the cave started coming down, things got a little rough. Speed was of the essence but every time Richie blinked his eyes closed, it took a lot more effort to open them again and he just couldn’t catch his fucking breath. Eddie stayed planted firmly under his good arm while all the other Losers took turns at his other side, helping him wade through the nasty sewer water and leveraging him into the pipes when his legs could barely hold him up. Eddie had to shove his ass from below when they climbed the creepy hole in the standpipe and again at the well in the Neibolt house, the idea of trapping Eddie below him if he lost his grip and fell Richie’s most pressing motivating force to stay conscious.</p><p>When they miraculously stumbled out onto the street and Richie did another head count (<em>one, two, three, four, Eddie makes five</em>), it was a brilliant sort of satisfaction to watch that decrepit hell-pit crumble in on itself, the earth swallowing it whole. Unintentionally Richie sank to his knees in relief, dragging Eddie down with him and holding on as tight as his weak arm could just to make extra <em>extra </em>sure he was still warm and alive and present.</p><p>The other Losers were at their side in an instant, a heaving, tremulous group huddle as they all struggled to catch their breath and laugh-cried in the way you only could if you’d just bullied an eldritch monster to death.</p><p>“Dude,” Eddie panted, turning to Richie, disbelief and happiness and that absolutely perfect endeared-annoyance he saved just for Richie lighting him up from the inside as the sky threatened to brighten with dawn. It was a <em>really </em>good look for Eddie, maybe the best fucking thing Richie had ever seen, which was ideal because the darkness at the edge of his vision was closing in fast. “Did you just <em>come out</em> to the fucking clown?”</p><p>Richie burst out with one soul-deep, “<em>Ha</em>!” before he blacked out.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>What kind of idiot could pass out <em>smiling</em>?</p><p><em>Richie</em>, Eddie’s brain immediately supplied with a sort of fatalistic dryness. Richie, apparently, could pass out smiling. That fucking idiot.</p><p>The first hour in the hospital had been a blur – mostly because the Losers were collectively frantic as the weirdly-muscular Ben bridal carried Richie to a harried receptionist before a pair of nurses had the sense to wheel out a gurney. Eddie may have shouted a bit when security stopped him from following where Richie’s limp body had been rolled away, though to be fair, <em>everyone </em>was shouting including the hospital staff. Eddie just happened to be the loudest.</p><p>At some point after that (when Eddie finally stopped glaring down the security guard standing with his arms crossed in front of the ER doors) a nurse pulled him into a quiet room to disinfect and stitch up his cheek which he had completely forgotten about even though it had started sluggishly bleeding again in all the commotion and he’d lost the bandage somewhere in the escape from the cave. Once she pointed it out to him, he realized it did in fact hurt like a bitch and had no doubt gotten infected from all the pathogens breeding in the fucking sewer.</p><p>So between the panic and the endorphins (and eventually the hit of pain medication to keep his cheek from stinging every time he opened his mouth to talk) the first hour in the hospital didn’t leave him much time for introspective thinking – or really a whole lot of thinking at all except ‘<em>holy shit</em>,’ and ‘<em>jesus fucking christ</em>,’ and ‘<em>don’t you dare fucking die, Richie, or I will find a way to bring you back to life just to murder you myself</em>.’</p><p>Now, a full hour and a half after they’d entered the hospital and nearly two hours since Richie keeled over like a toy running out of battery, Eddie deeply regretted burning his inhaler. Well, no, he didn’t, not <em>really</em>. It was a fucking placebo (<em>gazebo</em>) anyways so it wasn’t like he <em>needed </em>it. And he didn’t have asthma so there wasn’t anything in it that would actually stop his lungs from feeling like they were trying to seize up.</p><p>On the other hand, placebos were well documented to have notable effects treating psychological distress while Mike’s fucking chode ritual had done jack-shit so setting his inhaler on fire was the bigger waste. And taking a huff off it was comforting in a way Eddie would probably have to start resisting but maybe that emotional journey could wait until his best friend wasn’t <em>actively bleeding out somewhere in the ER</em>.</p><p>Richie. That fucking idiot.</p><p>Bev lowered herself into the seat next to Eddie and laid her hand gently over his. It wasn’t until the rhythmic tapping stopped that he realized he’d been erratically rapping his nails against the armrest loud enough to attract annoyed stares from an elderly couple seated across the waiting room.</p><p>“What the fuck are you looking at,” he snapped at them, satisfied when they averted their eyes. “I’m fucking <em>stressed</em>, is that okay with you? Huh?”</p><p>That should be fucking obvious. He was covered in Richie’s blood and his sweater was lost to the ER probably forever and, oh, that’s fucking right, he was <em>sitting in the fucking waiting room of a hospital</em>. People didn’t go to the hospital for fun. Or, well, not <em>sane </em>people. Not <em>him</em>. Not anymore.</p><p>Instead of admonishing him or apologizing for him or gripping his hand so tight it hurt, Bev snorted out a laugh and smiled, fondness clear in every line of her face.</p><p>It was stupid how much the weight of Bev’s hand on his brought him down from the brink of standing up and pacing – something he’d done obsessively for the last hour and half. He didn’t even hold hands with his <em>wife </em>(the two exceptions he’d made included their wedding day and her father’s funeral - and was it possible that the two occasions were equally unpleasant?). Myra’s grip always felt smothering – in the early days of them dating she used their joined hands like someone walking a dog would use a leash; pulling him, directing him, leading him around.</p><p>It was a lot like the grip his mother used to steer him around when he was a child – skin soft but grip manacle tight.</p><p>Not that he remembered that part of his youth until <em>just now</em> – thanks a lot ass-clown. But something of the sense-memory must have lingered because it got to the point that the feel of Myra’s soft hand in his set of spikes of anxiety so bad his skin would crawl. Eddie had accredited the distaste for hand-holding as some sort of touch aversion heavily related to germs but Bev was drenched head to toe in something dark and foul, brownish-red caked under her chipped fingernails, palm moist with sweat, yet he automatically turned his hand over so they could interlace their fingers.</p><p>“He’ll be fine,” Eddie said to her, rolling his eyes, his heel starting to tap against the linoleum. “He’s an idiot but he’s a <em>sturdy</em> idiot.”</p><p>“I know,” Bev nodded, smiling at him way too kindly and <em>fuck</em> he had missed her. Missed how she could be hard and sharp and soft and kind and how none of it was an act even though those sorts of contradictions shouldn’t fit inside one person. Beverly Marsh didn’t manipulate or lie and Eddie never needed to dissect her actions or second guess himself or walk on fucking eggshells. Why was that such a relief?</p><p>Her eyes squinted like she was looking far off in the distance, a funny little smirk forming at the corner of her mouth. “Remember that time Richie practically brained himself at the dump?”</p><p>The memory flashed back into Eddie’s head, full and crisp like it happened <em>yesterday </em>instead of nearly thirty years ago. “Oh my god, don’t remind me,” Eddie groaned, sinking his forehead into the hand not holding Bev’s - he wasn’t ready to let her go yet. “Jesus, how the fuck did he make it to forty?”</p><p>They were just starting their freshman year of high school when Mike got sent on an errand to find a spare part for a broken tractor at the junkyard. Richie and Bev lit up like torches and volunteered to ‘help’ (<em>yeah right</em>) but Mike must have known what he was getting into when he asked them along. Eddie, disgusted at the idea of walking through towering stacks of trash, would have flatly refused under normal circumstances but of the Losers, Richie and Bev were the most reckless and therefore the most likely to contract tetanus. Eddie went along to supervise.</p><p>Good thing he did, too. Bev was happy to trail along after Mike while he inspected carbon-sooty engines for whatever the fuck he was looking for but Richie almost immediately threw himself on the first heap of stacked cars, scaling the pile like a gangly monkey shouting, “Hey Spaghetti, watch this!”</p><p>And because Richie was a lunatic with a death wish, he balanced along a bent metal pole and started jumping, assumedly to snap it in half for… what? The destructive pleasure of it? Because he had too much goddamn energy? Because ADHD wasn’t a thing that early in the nineties and a little bit of Adderall would have done him a world of good?</p><p>It only took three huge jumps to crumple the metal underneath him, but Richie apparently hadn’t prepared for that inevitability, arms cartwheeling out when the bar snapped. He conked his head hard on a rusted fender on his way down, the <em>thump</em> of contact loud enough to echo off the thin alley built of scrap. Eddie scrabbled over the pile of junk, heart in his fucking throat until he found Richie sprawled over the hood of an old car, laughing and moaning at the same time, cradling his broken glasses which had snapped in half at the nose bridge.</p><p>Richie wound up with a lump literally the size of Eddie’s fist front and center on his forehead, like he sprouted a tumor in the span of sixty seconds. The fender didn’t break his skin – thank fuck – although Richie was wobbly on his feet and probably concussed and he <em>wouldn’t stop fucking laughing. </em>But if that meant his brain was broken, it wasn’t a new development.</p><p>“He cracked jokes the whole way home, remember?” Bev said fondly.</p><p>“Fucking <em>horrible </em>jokes,” Eddie reminded her and she huffed out a soft laugh.</p><p>“You still laughed,” she smirked.</p><p>“<em>At </em>him, not with him.”</p><p>Working together, Bev, Mike, and Eddie managed to get Richie back to his house, holding onto him more because he was Mr. Magoo-level blind as fuck without his glasses than because of his head injury. He told the same joke about being an egghead (‘<em>get it Eds? Egg. Head,’ pointing to his sizable lump</em>) at least three times but annoying repetition also wasn’t an uncommon Richie-ism. Apparently a lot of Richie’s personality lined up perfectly with symptoms for brain damage. Eddie made sure to tell him that and Richie laughed so hard he had to sit down on the curb to catch his breath.</p><p>Post Mr. Keene’s placebo revelation, Eddie had a new streak of distrust towards the hospital, Derry, and adults in general so he felt a lot better looking after Richie himself, doubly so when Richie’s parents didn’t even notice the massive bump on his head or (thankfully) the glasses Eddie had very carefully superglued back together for the hundredth time.</p><p>He spent the night with Richie, doling out Tylenol for his headache like clockwork, resupplying an icepack for his head, and once Richie finally stopped insisting Eddie read out loud from <em>The Hobbit</em> for him and fell asleep with his mouth gaping open, Eddie woke him up every hour to make sure he wasn’t dead.</p><p>It should have been a bad memory (Eddie had been seriously worried about Richie, the guy didn’t have a whole lot of brain cells left to his name and that bump was pretty impressive) but even concussed Richie was good company. And it felt… nice… to put all the shit Eddie knew to use. It meant the years he’d spent being dragged to the doctor for every tiny thing weren’t a total waste. It meant that Eddie - small and neurotic as he was - could do <em>something </em>to help his idiot best friend.</p><p>Eddie blinked himself out of his thoughts and kneaded at his forehead, jerking upright when Mike, Bill, and Ben hurried over from the nurse’s station.</p><p>“He’s in surgery to flush out the wound and fix his shoulder,” Mike answered before Eddie had a chance to ask. “He’s lost a lot of blood but they’ve got him stabilized, at least.”</p><p>Both Eddie and Bev let out long breaths.</p><p>“Thank god,” Bev smiled tremulously, giving Eddie’s hand a little squeeze.</p><p>Eddie had no idea why his eyes would be tearing up <em>now</em>, not when it sounded like Richie wasn’t about to fucking <em>die </em>at any given second which was the best fucking news he’d heard all day. Frustrated, he swiped at the moisture that leaked down his cheeks with the back of his wrist.</p><p>“Now m-might be a good time,” Bill hedged, worried eyes locked on Eddie, “if you wanted to c-c-clean up, Eddie.”</p><p>Oh. <em>Oh fuck</em>. Eddie yanked his hand away from face realizing the flakey reddish-brown remains of Richie’s blood coating him from fingers to elbow should be concerning to him beyond the fact that it wasn’t in Richie’s body where it was supposed to be. Not to mention the sewer grime and grey water and his own terror-sweat soaking through his rank clothes. His underwear was <em>still </em>fucking wet from the trudge through the standpipe – how had he not noticed that?!</p><p>But even though he’d do a lot of questionable things for the promise of a shower, there was still the <em>main </em>issue which was: “What about Richie?” Eddie demanded, dread warring with his sudden manic desperation to get out of his clothes and scrub off the first two layers of his skin. “A lot could still happen.” His head was filling with numbers and statistics and figures. It was a lot less common to die <em>in </em>surgery than it was to die after but the feel of Richie’s pulse (fast but faint through the thin skin of his neck) was still clinging to Eddie’s fingertips. “We can’t <em>leave </em>him.”</p><p>“I’ll stay,” Ben volunteered.</p><p>“Me too,” Bev added. “We’ll go in shifts. If you’re fast, you might even beat him out of surgery.”</p><p>It wasn’t like Eddie was doing Richie any good sitting in filth. Logically, locked out of the ER with only a wall between them wasn’t any better or worse than being locked out of the ER with half a mile between them.</p><p>But if that asshole fucking died while Eddie was taking a <em>shower</em>, Eddie wouldn’t be able to live with himself.</p><p>It was imagining the possibility that Richie would wake up after surgery and ask for Eddie the same way he <em>always </em>did when he was a kid (so fucking clingy when he was hurt or sick or scared) that pushed Eddie to a decision. Better to be clean and ready to calm him down than stewing uselessly while the doctors tried to make sense of Richie’s mangled back.</p><p>“We’ll be quick,” Eddie agreed, jumping to his feet. To Ben he snapped, “Call if anything changes,” flinching afterwards at his sharp tone but grateful for the way Ben nodded seriously and clapped a hand to his arm. “Please,” he amended, belatedly.</p><p>“Of course,” Ben promised, his soft, reassuring smile exactly the same as the one he had when he was a kid.</p><p>Mike’s truck bed still had a blood stain from the frantic drive to the hospital and he, Eddie, and Bill all eyed it glumly before piling into the cab.</p><p>After everything else that had happened that day, it shouldn’t have been a surprise when Mike pulled his truck to a halt in front of a crumbling, derelict building where once the Townhouse stood. Still, the three of them leaned forward to gape out the windshield for entirely too long before Eddie broke the tense silence by chuckling, impressed it was only <em>slightly </em>hysterical sounding.</p><p>“That f-f-fucking clown,” Bill grumbled, running a hand through his hair before he swung out of the car and shoved the Townhouse door open, ignoring the notices posted on the door.</p><p>“<em>That fucking clown</em>,” Eddie repeated in furious benediction. “Looks like we’re going to your place, Mike.”</p><p>‘<em>At least that explained why no one fucking worked here</em>,’ Eddie thought as he tentatively climbed stairs that creaked and groaned under his weight, a thick carpet of dust at the edges of each step. The only person (<em>thing</em>) manning the Townhouse had been <em>It</em>. Cool. Great. Super fun trip back home. Eddie couldn’t wait to never come back to Derry ever again.</p><p>If he was working on less of a time-table, Eddie would be sorely tempted to have some kind of breakdown but since he was literally counting how many seconds he was wasting outside the hospital, he shoved that shit way down and continued up the stairs, proud of himself for waiting for the right time instead of giving in to his panic immediately.</p><p>The decrepit room Eddie found his luggage in was identical, floor plan-wise, to the room he’d seen thanks to space-monster magic or whatever the fuck it was that had made this place look like a normal, tacky, small-town inn the night before. There was still blood in the bathroom. His and Bower’s. Eddie tried not to look at it while he robotically collected his luggage, just like he tried not to look at whatever rotten, dusty, bug-infested bed he’d slept in. Better not to know.</p><p>He and Bill made a point to collect everyone’s luggage, Eddie volunteering to brave Richie’s room, mostly expecting as mess of clothes on the floor the way Richie lived when he was a teenager, but Mike must have beaten him to collecting his luggage because there was nothing but abandoned hotel furniture and brown-stained linens.</p><p>Still determined to grab a shower, Eddie climbed into his busted Escalade and followed Mike and Bill back to the library, Eddie hurriedly digging out a change of clothes from his luggage, fully intending to light everything he was currently wearing on fire and scattering the ashes to the four corners of the earth.</p><p>It turned out to be a good thing they’d had to retreat to the library because gathered there, standing in front of the checkout desk while the first golden rays of dawn pushed through the big windows, the three of them stood flummoxed for a few precious minutes as they stared down at the body of Henry Bowers.</p><p>“Huh,” Bill hummed. “<em>Sh-Shit</em>.”</p><p>Somehow, Eddie had mostly forgotten about that part of the night – weird considering Richie had <em>killed a man</em> and you’d think that sort of life-changing shit would stick around – but it was hard to feel anything that wasn’t disgust and hatred, the faint trace of a childish, gloating ‘<em>fuck you</em>’ sprinkled on for flavor. The ‘<em>fuck you</em>’ grew more prominent when Eddie’s cheek throbbed where Bowers had stabbed it and Mike’s hand protectively shielded the long cut running up his arm.</p><p>Still,<em> shit</em>.</p><p>“Eddie, you go first,” Mike said, tossing him his key ring, eyes still on Bowers. Eddie caught it instinctively and opened his mouth to protest but Mike beat him to it. “I’ve only got one shower and you gotta get back to Richie.” Mike finally looked up to offer one powerfully reassuring smile and Eddie nodded.</p><p>Eddie might have argued with that any other time – <em>they all </em>needed to get back to Richie, the guy was gonna be ridiculous when he woke up, doped up on drugs and probably fucking emotional – but Eddie was pretty sure his skin was breaking out in hives and he smelled worse than the corpse on the floor and Richie really was super particular about Eddie when he was hurt. Eddie didn’t know the others had noticed that too; as a kid he half thought he was imagining things or projecting because somehow Richie always seemed extra pathetic to Eddie and it brought out a manic urge to bandage his bloody knees and bring him the better-tasting cough medicine when he had the flu. But maybe that hadn’t been his imagination.</p><p>So Eddie hurried towards the back stairs, glancing over his shoulder in time to see Mike and Bill exchange serious, determined looks.</p><p>Mike’s apartment looked like something out of a crime-drama and Eddie snorted, reaching for his phone to take a picture to show Richie once he was out of surgery and awake because Richie was <em>definitely</em> going to wake up. And when he did, Eddie wanted to be able to show him Mike’s super cliché serial killer board so Richie could make fun of him for it.</p><p>Unfortunately, Eddie’s phone was dead (though in great condition despite everything thanks to the over-kill protective case Richie had ribbed him for the night before – <em>who’s laughing now, fuckface</em>) and his charger was in the car. But he’d worry about that later. Eddie was still on a mission.</p><p>Mikes shower took a long time to heat up but Eddie was already scrubbing himself furiously (and trying to find a way to wash his face without agitating his freshly stitched up cheek wound) by the time the water shifted from freezing to scalding. He wanted to stand under the spray forever, maybe wear Mike’s soap bar down to a fucking nub just to make sure there wasn’t a speck of sewer left on him, but the stop at the Townhouse was already too much of a delay.</p><p>Richie might be out of surgery. He might be awake. He might be asking for Eddie. Or he might be…<em> nope</em>. Not that. He wouldn’t be <em>that.</em></p><p>Eddie hurried.</p><p>After he wrestled his still slightly damp body into a set of clean clothes and found a trash bag to gingerly pick up his soiled outfit like he was picking up dog shit, he rushed down the stairs.</p><p>Bill, Mike, and the body of Henry Bowers were all gone. So was the worst of the sizable bloodstain that had been spreading across the library floorboards but Eddie really hoped they didn’t think they’d done a good job – there was still red caked in the cracks of the wood and Richie’s puke was untouched (the guy was <em>still</em> an anxious vomiter, how the fuck did he ever get on stage?) – and Eddie spent an agonizing two minutes weighing whether he should stay and clean or hurry back to the hospital. But again, the thought of Richie <em>alone </em>in the hospital while Eddie scrubbed up blood was too horrible to bear. Hopefully the library opened late on Sunday.</p><p>Eddie tried not to give his worst thoughts any credence as he locked the library up, threw himself into his Escalade, and sped back to the hospital. Because killing a man in self-defense was one thing but covering it up was a <em>significantly </em>different crime. On the other hand, Eddie trusted the Derry Police less than he trusted the Derry hospital and Mike was depressingly notable in town as one of the few black residents so Eddie could see why it might be a good idea to separate him from Henry Bowers’ untimely but very much deserved death.</p><p>Eddie didn’t find himself nearly as disturbed by the thought of being complicit in a murder cover-up as he should have been but maybe slaying a demonic clown-monster did that to a man. More likely he was still in shock.</p><p>And honestly, if any of the Losers were equipped to cover up a crime, it was probably Mike and Bill working together, what with Mike’s serial-killer-hunter collage upstairs and Bill’s obsession with writing murder stories. And the Derry Police weren’t known for their detective skills, obviously, or the Losers’ childhoods might not have been so fucking traumatic…</p><p>Eddie found Bev and Ben in the same seats he’d left them in forty-five minutes earlier, both jumping to their feet when they saw he was alone.</p><p>“Where’s –”</p><p>“Townhouse was clown-magic,” Eddie answered, rolling his eyes. “All decrepit and shit.” It was a testament to their entire relationship with Derry that Bev and Ben accepted that with annoyed, acknowledging sighs. “I’ve got your luggage in the back of my car. We wound up at the library.”</p><p>“Oh,” Bev said, her face morphing from blank aggravation to dawning comprehension. “<em>Oh shit</em>, <em>Bowers</em>,” she cursed quietly under her breath.</p><p>Ben glanced around nervously. The old couple was gone and the only other occupant of the waiting room was a gruff looking man with two black eyes and a busted nose, snoring with his head leaned against the far corner. A strong smell of whiskey permeated the room, threatening to overpower the sewer scent still rippling off Bev and Ben in a cloud.</p><p>“They didn’t… call the police? …Did they?” Ben asked, and if those massive breaks between thoughts were any indication, Eddie wasn’t the only one worrying about what Bowers’ body would mean for Richie or Mike or any fucking one of them. It wasn’t like they could explain that their childhood bully was in cahoots with a people-eating monster to settle a 27-year-old grudge. Or why, after being nearly stabbed to death and killing a man, all of them went on a traipse through the sewers instead of calling the cops.</p><p>Eddie shook his head slowly. It wasn’t like he was <em>thrilled </em>to be a part of covering up a murder but the understanding, affirming looks the three of them exchanged were somehow the closest he’d felt to anyone in <em>years</em> and his heart clenched in a way that wasn’t quite anxiety but also wasn’t quite <em>not</em>.</p><p>“Bill and Mike, are they –”</p><p>“Taking care of it? I think so,” Eddie answered, trying to be vague in case Drunk Sleeping Beauty in the corner wasn’t as unconscious as he looked. “What about Richie?”</p><p>“No news.” Eddie’s jaw tightened.</p><p>“No news is good news,” Ben said bracingly, his face scrunching into a grimace. “We should help Mike and Bill.”</p><p>“I don’t know where they went,” Eddie admitted, surreptitiously glancing around again. “But the library needs some cleaning,” he added, feeling stupid for leaving the mess when he knew he shouldn’t have. They were all in this together now and he wasn’t pulling his weight. “I should go back…”</p><p>Bev immediately shook her head. “No way, we’ve got it. We’ve had practice right?” Bev said, lifting one eyebrow playfully like cleaning blood from every surface of her childhood bathroom was a fond memory instead of a horrifying one. “You stay here.”</p><p>Eddie started to make a noise of protest but Ben laid one of his huge hands on Eddie’s shoulder and there it was again, a casual touch that would have made him flinch three days ago. Now he found himself leaning into it. “Richie’s gonna want you when he wakes up. Call us if anything changes and we’ll be back as soon as we can.”</p><p>Eddie handed over the keys to the library and to his car, then Bev and Ben were hurrying through the hospital doors and Eddie was left alone.</p><p>He had hated being away from the hospital, terrified every moment something would happen he couldn’t live with, but at least he’d been in motion. He had a goal. He had <em>distractions</em>.</p><p>Now Eddie was stuck in a standstill again and he fucking hated it.</p><p>Glancing around the waiting room, he found the nearest outlet and fished the charger cable he’d grabbed from his bag out of his pocket.</p><p>He wasn’t sure when his phone died – they’d been in full monster-hunter mode since they all set out for the clubhouse the morning before so he hadn’t checked it in at least twelve hours. It had probably gone dead looking for reception in that fuckin alien cave; his coverage didn’t reach reality-bending spacial anomalies and he supposed he couldn’t expect it to.</p><p>Eddie waited impatiently while his phone charged up enough to reboot, fingers rapping against the arm of the chair again to stave off the restless energy he couldn’t shake.</p><p>There were exactly four seconds while his phone lit up and unlocked under Eddie’s thumbprint before the thing started vibrating in his hand, a never ending series of <em>bzzzz bzzzz bzzzz bzzzz </em>that went on for what felt like minutes, a stress headache creeping in behind Eddie’s eyes before it ran itself out. The amount of messages wasn’t shocking – Myra sent him a cascade of texts if traffic kept him two minutes longer on the road coming home from work – but the rush of annoyance that bloomed in his chest was new.</p><p>Myra worried a lot, mostly about him which, until a few days ago, Eddie thought was nice and normal and only a little bit suffocating but maybe that was just what being a relationship was like.</p><p>Now it felt like something else – something big and horrible and smothering – like early childhood afternoons spent looking out the window at the neighbor kids riding bikes and thinking ‘<em>I can do that, I know I can</em>,’ until Sonia Kaspbrak snapped the blinds closed and told him to come sit with her and watch TV.</p><p>Tentatively, Eddie unlocked his phone and scrolled to the top of the 99+ text messages she’d sent him in just over twenty-four hours, purposely ignoring the red bubble above the phone app telling him his voicemail was full.</p><p>
  <em>Myra: Where are you?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Myra: Why won’t you pick up my calls?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Myra: Eddie, I’m so worried about you…</em>
</p><p>Those were timestamped two night ago, right when the Losers were sitting down to eat at the Jade of the Orient. He had called her from the parking lot of the restaurant, finally acknowledging the barrage of texts and calls she’d made while he’d been driving. It was a brief conversation where he mostly listened to her performative wailing, humming, ‘<em>I know, I’m sorry</em>,’ until he couldn’t take it anymore and excused himself pitifully.</p><p>At the time he had felt so guilty about it - leaving his wife with no notice and no explanation, the sound of her tears and her fear-pitched voice a shortcut to the part of Eddie that knew he was small and horrible and unlovable – so why was he hurting the only person who would ever see him as something worthwhile?</p><p>The texts continued. All through dinner, and the fortune cookie incident, and Bev’s little revelation about death premonitions. His phone had buzzed in his pocket while he’d downed enough drinks with Richie and Ben to put himself to sleep despite the crippling anxiety, accidentally-on-purpose leaving his phone in his pants without plugging it in to charge and absently pocketing it on autopilot the next morning without checking the screen.</p><p>After the pharmacy and all the fucked up epiphanies that came with it (his mother, his pills, his inhaler, his <em>life</em>, <em>jesus fuck</em>) it became even harder to think about the person on the other end of all those messages so he’d ignored it. If it weren’t for the fact that sitting quietly and picturing Richie on the operating table was actually <em>worse </em>than acknowledging the fact that he’d married <em>his mother</em>, he probably still wouldn’t have opened up his messages at all.</p><p>
  <em>Myra: You’ll be sore for a week after sleeping in a hotel bed</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Myra: Don’t you think your friends have seen enough of you?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Myra: It’s time for you to come home Eddie.</em>
</p><p>Was it <em>really </em>so bad to leave town for a few days? He had told her it was important, both before he left and during the brief part of the conversation in the lot of the Jade where she’d let him get a word in.</p><p>“I have to do this, Myra, just give me a few days. I’ll be fine.”</p><p>“You know you won’t be, Eddie-bear! You’re so <em>sensitive</em>…”</p><p>Eddie snorted, imagining what any of the Losers would think if they knew his wife thought he was <em>sensitive</em>. Him. The kid who hocked the best loogies all through middle school and used the word ‘<em>fuck</em>’ like a knife and who threw a goddamn fencepost down an alien-monster’s throat to save his best friend.</p><p>Eddie wasn’t ‘<em>sensitive</em>’ or whatever fucking demeaning word Myra was <em>really</em> thinking when she said that. Eddie was <em>brave</em>.</p><p>
  <em>Myra: Why are you doing this to yourself, Eddie? Why are you doing this to me?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Myra: I’ll never get to sleep if you don’t talk to me, Eddie</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Myra: I’ve been calling every hospital in Maine, please just text me Eddie!</em>
</p><p>Well, technically Eddie <em>was </em>in a hospital. He wondered if Myra had called Derry General looking for him but Edward Kaspbrak wouldn’t be on the list of patients.</p><p>He <em>would </em>have been, if Richie hadn’t…</p><p>Nope. Not thinking about that. Not until Richie was awake and cracking bad jokes and annoying the hospital staff.</p><p>Eddie hissed through his teeth to stave off the sound that wanted to come out a sob.</p><p>Jesus, he shouldn’t have looked at his phone. He could feel himself shrinking – becoming the man he was with Myra, the one who took an Advil every night before bed to stave off pain he could never be sure would come. The one who felt guilty every time he ate at the incredible deli next door to his office because Myra was worried about his salt-intake and made him a very bland lunch every day to keep him healthy. The one who went to an office filled with people he hated because it offered the best health insurance and that was more important than something as trivial as <em>happiness</em>, right?</p><p>The drunk guy in the corner snuffled and shifted, letting out a loud, abrasive snore.</p><p>
  <em>Myra: You aren’t good on your own, Eddie, you know that</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Myra: You can’t take care of yourself</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Myra: You need me, Eddie, please pick up the phone</em>
</p><p>There were more messages but Eddie’s finger closed the messaging app without input from his brain. Then, almost as if he were on autopilot, he pulled up his bank app.</p><p>He had paid for his inhaler with cash or else he might have noticed earlier that Myra had reported his credit card stolen. They had separate accounts – one of the very few things Eddie had insisted upon that she let slide – but she knew his login information because fairly early on in the relationship, she’d thrown a fit over financial transparency and trust when her friend’s husband was caught spending sixty bucks on a cam girl.</p><p>Eddie wasn’t surprised at all to see she’d reported his card stolen and that realization was pretty fucking terrible. Or maybe it was <em>more </em>terrible to think about the very intentional but also subconscious use of cash during every transaction he’d made since he left the state of New York. Or perhaps the worst thing was the fact he always carried around a worrying amount of paper money even though he lived in fear of being mugged, a few extra hundreds tucked into his wallet like he was always on the brink of making a run for it.</p><p>Honestly, there were so many horrible things to choose from it was hard to rank them.</p><p>Feeling guilty and maybe just a little vindictive, he reset the password for his bank account and then changed his email password as well, effectively locking her out of his accounts before he fully allowed himself to wonder why he’d done that.</p><p>He was spared having to fully digest his own thoughts by a harried looking nurse bursting into the waiting room. It was the same one who’d stitched up his cheek earlier and when her eyes landed on him in a panic, Eddie’s lungs seized up and his hand automatically started groping his pockets for his inhaler because that face fucking <em>screamed </em>bad news.</p><p>“Eddie?” she asked, and it was so different from how she had formally addressed him earlier as ‘Mr. Kaspbrak’ while she taped clean gauze over his cheek. “You’re Eddie, right? Mr. Tozier’s friend?”</p><p>“Yes!” Eddie half-shouted, jumping to his feet and nearly sprinting over to her. <em>Oh fuck oh fuck </em>oh fuck <em>please god</em>.</p><p>“We need you back here,” she said, hurrying to hold open the door for him and motioning him through.</p><p>“What the fuck does that mean?” Eddie demanded, heart pounding loud in his ears.</p><p>“He woke up just now – He’s asking for you and we couldn’t calm him down,” she explained, turning the corner at a clip with Eddie tight on her heels, the very specific sound of Richie’s shouts – deeper and more nasal than the way he sounded as a kid but unmistakably <em>Richie</em> – growing louder with every step.</p><p>“<em>Where the fuck is Eddie</em>?!” Richie’s raspy shout echoed through the hall, high pitched with panic and Eddie started jogging, passing the nurse and following the sound of Richie’s voice.</p><p>A billion bad thoughts came to Eddie at once: It crawling back to life to finish Richie off (<em>It should be dead</em>), somehow Bowers returned for revenge (<em>he was even deader</em>), brain damage (<em>obviously, but that wasn’t new</em>), stroke (<em>probably not</em>), a bad reaction to the anesthesia (<em>likely, considering how much booze Richie downed at the Jade</em>), <em>anything </em>that would make Richie sound so fucking scared when he was safely out of that fucking hell-cave.</p><p>Eddie was emotionally preparing himself for round four with the clown (one on fucking one) when he followed the source of Richie’s shouts and turned into a small, out of date looking room to find Richie struggling to leverage himself out of a hospital bed while two sturdy looking nurses tried to hold him down without aggravating his shoulder and the arm bound up in a sling.</p><p>“Richie, what’s going on?! <em>Get the fuck off him</em>!” Eddie snapped at the nurses, not liking the way the two men in scrubs were pinning Richie to the bed while his legs kicked wildly.</p><p>“We would if he’d <em>calm down</em>,” one of them said unnecessarily because at the sight of Eddie, all the fight left Richie like he’d deflated, his kicking legs slowing and then going still.</p><p>“<em>Eddie</em>?!” Richie gasped, his voice cracking in the middle, and Eddie’s heart or something in that vicinity cracked right along with it. “Oh fuck<em> Eddie</em>, that’s you, right? Talk to me, bud.”</p><p>Eddie rushed forward, doing a preliminary sweep of the room <em>again</em> because he was still half convinced something deeply wrong must be going on but Richie only stretched out the arm not trapped by a sling, an IV dangling from his forearm, a blood pressure cuff around his bicep, and a heart monitor pinched to his finger. Despite all the medical accoutrement, Richie managed to make grabby motions with his fingers in Eddie’s direction like a little kid and the two nurses backed off when it became obvious the fight had siphoned out of him.</p><p>Adrenaline fucking <em>pumping</em>, Eddie hurried over and once he was within reaching distance, Richie snatched at his sweater sleeve and tugged with surprising strength. Then Richie’s hand (still complete with heart monitor and trailing wire) pawed groggily at Eddie’s cheek and Eddie distractedly tried to slap him away. “This is you, right Eds?” Richie rasped, his throat dry and scratchy sounding, face still a rictus of fear. “Fuck, you’re all blurry, <em>you’re alive right</em>?”</p><p>“Yeah I’m alive, idiot - Where’s his glasses?” Eddie snapped at the stitches-nurses, the only one left in the room now Richie wasn’t making such a huge scene, and she turned quickly into the hallway.</p><p>“<em>Eddie, Eds, oh fuck</em>,” Richie was gasping, a constant litany that would probably haunt Eddie <em>forever</em>, his voice tremulous and still scared, eyes deep sunk and skin pale. He looked <em>wrong </em>draped in the dull, flimsy hospital gown though Eddie was surprised to see that the breadth of his shoulders <em>wasn’t </em>an illusion aided by layers of clothing and a well-tailored jacket. They were instead, <em>apparently</em>, all Richie.</p><p>“I’m right here, Richie,” Eddie insisted, cupping his elbow and trying to ease him back down, laying him on his good side and bending in half since Richie kept pawing at his face, smacking him in the nose with his heart monitor clip. “Jesus, calm down you fucking drama queen.”</p><p>At that Richie burst into scratchy, quiet laughter (thank fucking god – inappropriate laughter suited him much better than fear) even as tears started streaming down his cheeks unchecked, his trembling thumb stroking over Eddie’s undamaged cheek. It was probably a good thing Richie’s right arm was strapped to his chest in a sling or he’d for sure be fondling Eddie’s stitched up wound.</p><p>“You’re okay? Everyone’s okay?”</p><p>The stitches-nurse approached them calmly (all traces of urgency professionally disguised though she was sweeping them with an obviously appraising look), handing over Richie’s cracked and slightly blood-stained glasses which Eddie slid onto Richie’s face. Still held close, Eddie watched his myopic stare come into focus, wet, magnified eyes flying over Eddie’s face while he breathed out a long sigh.</p><p>“Everyone’s fine, Rich, you’re the one in the fucking hospital,” Eddie answered, disconcerted by how pale and vaguely green-tinged Richie was looking, expression way too vulnerable for a face Eddie still was re-learning. “So if you’d calm the fuck down, we’d all really appreciate it.”</p><p>At that, Richie sank a little deeper into his hospital-flat pillow, glasses going skewed as he stared at Eddie with far away eyes, palm still trying to cup Eddie’s cheek until Eddie manually laid it down gently on the bed, palm up. He thought about holding it (Richie would probably like that, he kept scootching closer to the side of the bed like he was freezing and Eddie was a blazing fire) but with the IV and the heart monitor and cuff and the hospital wristband, there was a lot going on in comparatively little real estate and Eddie didn’t want to disturb any of it.</p><p>“What the fuck was that about?” Eddie directed his harsh question at stitches-nurse, voice higher than his normal register, and she glanced again between the two of them and then notably to Eddie’s left hand where he had braced himself against the top rail of Richie’s slightly inclined hospital bed.</p><p>“I can only release medical information to his family,” the nurse said, gently closing the door with her inside.</p><p>“Tell him whatever,” Richie said, voice thick with exhaustion or drugs or whatever the fuck it was making his eyes tremble like a goddamn newborn deer. “Eddie’s my –”</p><p>“Husband,” Eddie supplied immediately, realizing as the word came out of his mouth why the nurse had been eyeing his ring. <em>Richie </em>wasn’t wearing a ring but he hadn’t been wearing his clothes or his glasses either so hopefully that didn’t raise any alarms.</p><p>Richie’s eyebrows climbed his forehead in slow motion and Eddie was very glad the nurse was on the side of the bed facing Richie’s back because he would have given them away with his drug-loose flabbergasted gape.</p><p>“I’m his husband,” Eddie said again, firmly, faintly smiling at the almost-silent ‘<em>whaaaaaaa</em>’ Richie was mouthing to himself, nudging his arm to try to get him to cut it out.</p><p>“You could have told us earlier,” the nurse said kindly though her face was screwed up in a frown. Eddie made a point to glance down and see her badge had the name SARAH printed on it. Eddie wondered whether she too remembered the semi-fist fight he’d had with security while he shouted Richie’s name, feeling the air bleed out of his lungs while Richie was rolled away past the ER doors.</p><p>Eddie let his left hand trail down to Richie’s head, brushing his still sewer-filthy hair away from his forehead, trying to imagine why he wouldn’t have been throwing around the word ‘husband’ like a lunatic if he thought it would have gotten him in here sooner.</p><p>“Adrian Mellon,” Richie mumbled and Eddie wracked his brain for what Richie meant but Sarah grimly pursed her lips.</p><p>Whoever Adrian Mellon was, his name worked like a free pass because Sarah’s face softened as she glanced between the two of them. “You’re safe here,” she said firmly. “And there’s laws protecting your rights.”</p><p>Eddie, still feeling out of the loop, only nodded firmly in fake-understanding and changed the subject.</p><p>“So what’s going on with Richie?” Eddie asked, still very aware that Richie was staring at him. The guy hadn’t fucking <em>blinked </em>more than twice since Eddie had entered the room. Eddie thought again about holding Richie’s hand, seeking that line of connection and comfort Bev had given him so easily, but Richie made the move for the both of them and Eddie smiled bemusedly when Richie’s weakly gripped the bottom hem of his hoodie.</p><p>Well, Eddie knew he’d be clingy. At this point he’d be half convinced it was the clown masquerading as Richie if he wasn’t.</p><p>“Mr. Tozier’s surgery went well. I’ll bring in a doctor to discuss the finer details of that with you.”</p><p>“But what about…” Eddie gestured vaguely to Richie trying to encompass the entirety of the man now laying placidly in bed, no more the scrambling lunatic he’d been a minute ago than Eddie was.</p><p>“We thought he’d be out for another half an hour but anesthetics react differently with everyone. My guess is he was worried enough about <em>you</em> that his adrenaline helped him push through the drugs and gave him the energy to wrestle half our nursing staff.” She didn’t seem angry about that fact, thank fuck. If anything she seemed faintly amused. “Trauma can have some unexpected consequence. What did you say happened?”</p><p>“<em>Fucking clown claw</em>,” Richie muttered at the same time Eddie asserted, “A HOUSE COLLAPSED ON US,” loudly, so glad he’d tuned in to Bill at the nurses station long enough to hear that gem of a cover story.</p><p>“Yikes,” Sarah said neutrally, opening the door and glancing up the hall. “I’ll send the doctor in. Should be a few minutes. Mr. Tozier, try to get some rest.”</p><p>“Thank you,” Eddie said cordially to her retreating back before he turned and hissed, “<em>You idiot!</em>” at Richie once she was gone. “You’ll screw up your back even worse if you don’t lay still. What’s got you so fucked up, anyways?”</p><p>“Uh – <em>the giant alien clown</em>?” Richie answered, sarcasm present but not nearly as overwhelming as usual considering Richie was practically nodding off, his eyes drifting closed only to snap back open like he was fighting the pull of sleep with everything he had.</p><p>“It’s dead,” Eddie reminded Richie (<em>and himself</em>).</p><p>“Wow, the clown died and I got a husband in the same day,” Richie murmured groggily. “I should buy a lottery ticket. Or go to the racetrack. Fuck, isn’t there a casino in Bangor? Wanna hit up the craps table?”</p><p>Eddie rolled his eyes but disentangled Richie’s weak grasp from his sweater so he could scoot the empty chair from the corner over to Richie’s bedside.</p><p>“I want you to <em>go to sleep</em>, jackass,” Eddie told him seriously and Richie blinked slowly like a cat. Once, twice, then his eyes stayed closed.</p><p>Eddie thought he was out but after a minute Richie startled himself awake so violently Eddie jerked too. He was about to curse him out again but Richie blinked up at him with a young, vulnerable, faintly scared expression on his face that Eddie recognized immediately even though he hadn’t seen it in more than twenty years.</p><p>“I’ll be right here, Rich,” he told him gently, pushing his chair forward enough so he could rest his arm on Richie’s bed, the tips of their fingers barely touching. “Get some sleep. I’ll be right here.”</p><p>Richie was out before a minute had passed.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>It had to be done; we had to right the wrongs of canon so that those two idiots could someday mash their genitals together and, you know, love each other and shit. Sorry for the shameless '<i>we're husbands</i>... 😒' trope but it's the best and I can never fucking resist.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter Three</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: hospitals, IV pain medication, mentions of past suicidal thoughts, alcoholism, drug addiction and underage drinking, allusions to past sexual assault</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“<em>Eddie</em>,” Richie mumbled himself awake, mouth full of bland scratchy fabric, glasses digging into his temple and skewed across his eyes. Richie shifted to straighten them but his right arm didn’t have much room to budge. After a confused moment, Richie deduced it was strapped to his chest in an impressively confining sling. At the faint hint of rotation, his shoulder aggressively throbbed.</p><p>“Okay, ow,” Richie grit out, baffled, his voice rough as it dragged up his dry throat. “<em>What</em>?”</p><p>“<em>Shit</em>,” a voice hissed from somewhere behind Richie and he jerked hard in surprise. Then pretty much every part of his body lit up with pain, most notably his back and shoulder. </p><p>“<em>Ow</em>,” he repeated, hissing through his teeth, trying to leverage himself up with the arm trapped underneath him and twisting his neck even though that made something high up on his back <em>pull </em>in a very disconcerting way. But <em>fuck that clown </em>if It thought Richie was gonna let it get Eddie just because he was strapped up all weird and apparently plugged into at least four different machines.</p><p>“It’s me, Rich,” the voice said, a hand landing on his knee and Eddie appeared, coming around the bottom of Richie’s bed, looking like a fucking dream come true wrapped up in rumpled-polo packaging. “I’m right here.”</p><p>And <em>wow</em>, Richie didn’t think he’d ever heard three better words in his entire life. Eddie was <em>here</em>. He was <em>alive</em>. But, as far as Richie could tell, it was just the two of them in the room and sudden dread stabbed through Richie. “You’re okay, right Eddie? Everyone’s okay?”</p><p>“Yes, Richie,” Eddie reassured him, patient and a little annoyed, like this was something he’d repeated a few times, though Richie could tell the annoyance was for show. It almost always was with Eddie. “Everyone’s okay. I’m okay. You’re in the hospital but you’re going to be okay too.”</p><p>And oh, cool, now Richie was crying.</p><p>“Yup, there we go,” Eddie sighed, resignedly-endeared, pulling a chair up next to Richie’s head and reaching out to straighten Richie’s glasses. “You keep crying all your fluids out faster than they can pump ‘em into you.”</p><p>Richie blinked wetly at that and took in the room. “I had a terrible dream,” Richie said, trying to make his voice high like Judy Garland’s but it wobbled with tears. “And you were there, Eds. And Bev was there and Bill and Mike and Ben too.”</p><p>“Hate to break it to you but if it involved an alien shapeshifting clown-spider, it wasn’t a dream.”</p><p>“<em>Fuck</em>,” Richie oh-so-eloquently summarized his thoughts, but it made Eddie laugh softly so he counted it as a win.</p><p>“How's your pain?”</p><p>“Present and accounted for,” Richie grunted, struggling to sit himself up, trying not to be too stupid over the fact that Eddie immediately jumped to his feet to help even if his helping was mostly just laying a warm hand on Richie's good shoulder. But Richie had been trying <em>so hard </em>not to touch since he walked into the Jade, keeping his hands firmly planted in his pockets at all costs, the desire to shove and elbow and grab maybe-mostly-kosher when he was a teenager and Eddie hardly ever left his side but another thing altogether when he hadn’t seen Eddie in over twenty years and they were <em>forty </em>besides, Eddie married to a woman, Richie a sad, lonely, grabby-handed mess.</p><p>But Eddie seemed pretty content to leave his hand just there, right on Richie’s shoulder, the warmth of his skin grounding and immediate. Richie only <em>barely</em> resisted the urge to nuzzle against it like a cat.</p><p>“You're probably due for another round of pain meds soon,” Eddie murmured, his face very close to Richie’s, the soapy smell of his hair soothing even if the specific scent was unfamiliar. There was some god-awful fluorescent light humming over Richie's head but the rest of the room was dim with early dawn.</p><p>“How long have I been here?”</p><p>“About a day. They’ve kept you pretty heavily sedated because every time you wake up you freak out.”</p><p>“Lucky me. Keep the good stuff coming, Dr. K,” Richie sing-songed immediately, trying to land a joke, but the slightly pinched look Eddie gave him made Richie wonder how well versed he was in D-list celebrity gossip. Richie wasn’t <em>famous </em>famous but in the early aughts, he’d made a series of bad decisions that interested a very specific branch of journalism, namely magazines that printed gossip.</p><p>But his manager figured out how to spin the lowest point of Richie’s life into a career move and Richie went from ‘<em>yeah I might have seen this guy before, he tells a lot of dick jokes right?</em>’ to ‘<em>party-boy, perpetual child, pussy-loving Richie Tozier</em>’ practically overnight. Which was funny because Richie hadn’t been caught lapping at a <em>vagina </em>like it was the best goddamn ice cream cone on planet earth.</p><p>Eventually, with Eddie’s help, Richie was able to wrangle a way to sit that didn’t press against whatever the fuck was going on with his back and gave him a better vantage point to take in the hospital room. It was familiar in the way all hospital rooms and doctor’s offices kind of looked like they were cut from the same sterile, foreboding cloth though this one seemed a little less up to date than all the various emergency rooms Richie had gotten to know in LA. Which figured. Derry was behind the times in just about every possible way.</p><p>Eddie handed him a glass of water. “Want me to get you a nurse?”</p><p>“<em>No</em>!” Richie answered immediately, maybe a little too emphatically, but the idea of letting Eddie out of his sight audibly made his heart pick up speed, the traitorous monitor pinched to his finger giving him away as Eddie turned to watch the number climb on the display next to the bed.</p><p>“Okay, okay,” Eddie soothed, sinking back into his seat and running a hand through his un-styled hair (and wow didn’t Richie wish that was <em>his </em>hand), something threating to be smug toying around Eddie’s almost-smile. And Richie kinda <em>really</em> wanted to reach out and hold Eddie’s hand but that wasn’t a new instinct - just one he hadn’t regularly needed to sit with for the last twenty-something years - so resisting the temptation was both upsettingly familiar and cripplingly hard.</p><p>“I mean if you <em>want </em>to go, I don’t want to ke –”</p><p>“The first time you woke up you flipped a shit,” Eddie said quickly in that abrupt, not-subtle way he always did when he was a kid, waiting impatiently for the conversation to get around to what he really wanted to talk about and shoe-horning it in if it didn’t happen naturally. “You kept screaming my name.”</p><p>Yeah, that sounded about right. Super embarrassing but <em>totally</em> on brand. “That’s what I told your mom last night. Wait!” Richie stalled, steadfastly ignoring Eddie’s eye roll, a bubble of weird joyous humor expanding in his chest. “Does that mean – did you really tell the hospital staff you’re my <em>husband</em>?” Richie blurted out before he realized how <em>incriminating </em>that would be if it was something he’d dreamed up.</p><p>Eddie glowered but even in the dawn-grey gloom, Richie could see his cheeks flush just the tiniest bit. <em>Wow</em>, Richie wanted to lick the color off his fake-husbands skin. “It was the only way they’d tell me anything. And the only way they’d let me stay.”</p><p>Richie frowned, turning to take in the side of the room Eddie had been occupying while Richie was asleep. A rumpled sheet was bunched up on top of one of those hospital benches that unfolded into the world’s most uncomfortable cots.</p><p>Richie gaped, honestly <em>shocked </em>Eddie would have consented to sleeping on it considering it was made of plastic and didn’t offer lumbar support and was <em>in a hospital</em>. Richie’s heart swelled. He had no doubt he’d have wound up screaming his head off again if he’d come fully to his senses alone in a hospital room, dreams about Eddie being eviscerated too vivid in his mind.</p><p>But Eddie looked about as rough as Riche felt. His jawline was a little stubbled and the scar on his cheek was sporting a line of neat little stitches and he had dark circles under his eyes. Even though Richie would have rather sent his own arm away - would probably panic <em>less </em>if he looked down to find an amputated stub than he would if Eddie turned and walked out the door - he didn’t want to force Eddie to stay in the kind of place that probably ranked second highest on the ‘Likely to Cause Contamination’ list in Eddie’s head, second only to the fucking sewers which – ugh – Richie had talked him into too. The place where Eddie very nearly lost his fucking life. Shit. Richie was some fucking friend.</p><p>“About that, Eds… you don’t <em>have</em> to stay.” And then, because Eddie was looking at him like he was speaking another language, he continued, “That thing must be fucking murder on your back,” nodding his head towards the rumpled blanket and cot.</p><p>That was somehow the wrong thing to say because Eddie’s softness closed up like a book snapping shut. A muscle in his temple twitched, his eyes jumping to somewhere over Richie’s left shoulder. “Do you <em>want </em>me to go?” he asked, and he sounded <em>exactly </em>like he did when he was a kid – defensive and half-feral like he was deciding between gnashing his teeth in anger or tensing to scurry away.</p><p>“<em>No</em>!” Richie blurt out, probably a little too fast and too loud but jesus fuck that was the last thing Richie wanted and maybe his stupid outburst helped a little cause Eddie’s eyes jumped back up to meet his. “No, Eds. I – I’m really glad you’re here.” Oh fuck, too honest. Make a joke, Tozier. “I just want to make sure you’re not gonna combust if someone coughs down the hall.”</p><p>A wry smirk twisted Eddie’s frown into something gentler. “Hey, asshole. I’m right where I want to be.”</p><p>And oh, were those fucking <em>butterflies</em> in Richie’s stomach? What was he, <em>sixteen</em>?!</p><p>He covered up his shameless happiness by wheedling, “And if you wanted to be my husband, all you had to do was ask, Eds,” maybe a little awkwardly, positive he was blushing like a goddamn schoolboy. How the fuck did Eddie <em>still </em>do this to him? “I’d let you make an honest man of me.” And <em>fuck </em>that was also way too close to the truth but the best way to hide that shit was in plain sight, right?</p><p><em>Speaking </em>of truth…</p><p>“As if anyone alive could make you ‘<em>honest</em>’,” Eddie chortled back but Richie was too busy having a really bad but also maybe <em>great </em>idea to properly revel in Eddie’s soft jibe.</p><p>A quick scan of the little end table next to his bed revealed only a pitcher of water and his pair of broken, bloodstained glasses. He must be wearing his spares. Come to think of it, he’d woken up with them already on which was exactly what he preferred if he had to unexpectedly wake up <em>in a hospital </em>but all his other stays in similar establishments didn’t really get that memo which meant it was probably <em>Eddie </em>who’d slid them onto his face. And shit, why did that idea make Richie’s fucking heart race? </p><p>“So Spaghetti, have you seen my phone?” he asked instead of voicing his undying love, impressed with his level of self-restraint despite the tip-of-his-tongue urge to blurt it all out like a buffoon.</p><p>“Pretty sure it’s at the bottom of a sewer, Richie.” <em>Well shit</em>. “And don’t call me that.” Except, as there <em>always </em>was when they did their little nickname routine, the hint of a smile lurked around Eddie’s eyes. That <em>precious fucking contrarian</em>.</p><p>“Then can I borrow yours real quick?”</p><p>Eddie went, if possible, a little paler and sucked his bottom lip into his mouth (not that Richie zeroed in on <em>that </em>at all). Richie was about to backtrack but after a moment of hesitation that Richie would definitely agonize over later, Eddie pulled out his phone and tap tap tapped at the screen for a minute, talking fast while he did so. “You know if it weren’t for my fucking Otter case - the one <em>you </em>ripped into so fucking bad - we’d both be out a phone.”</p><p>“Even if I had a fucking protective brick around my phone, that wouldn’t <em>keep it in my pocket</em>,” Richie argued back, still wondering what Eddie was clearing out of his phone. “Maybe the sewer rats could use it to text their fucking friends but <em>I </em>still wouldn’t have it.” Did Eddie have a bunch of porn on there or something? <em>Holy shit </em>did Eddie have pictures of his dick saved on his phone?</p><p>“It comes with a belt clip so <em>you might</em>.”</p><p>“Oh Eds. <em>Please</em> tell me you use the belt clip.” The image was too easy to conjure and it crossed streams with the animal part of his brain still trying to fabricate Eddie’s probably-imaginary-but-maybe-not dick pics. “Wait no, tell me you had a beeper in the nineties. Oh fuck, you and that fucking Casio watch, you <em>absolutely</em> had a beeper.” And wow, hello, why were beepers now intruding his dick pic fantasies? Eddie’s fly hanging open, his beautiful cock on display, a goddamn beeper clipped to the belt above his hip. Why the fuck was that mental image <em>so fucking good</em>?</p><p>Thank sweet baby jesus for IV painkillers or Richie would be springing a fucking tent with his flimsy hospital sheet.</p><p>“Beepers were fucking <em>practical</em>, dickwad,” Eddie bit back, grim faced and fucking perfect as he passed over his phone. Oh man, Richie’s insane fantasy dick pic just became <em>canonically possible</em>. <em>Holy shit</em>.</p><p>Richie glanced at the screen (resisting the overwhelming urge to snoop only<em> barely</em> – when they were kids they had no boundaries – fuck, the word boundaries didn’t even <em>exist</em> - but they <em>weren’t </em>kids anymore and Eddie deserved his privacy, right?). Nothing stood out as super incriminating and Richie couldn’t help but cut Eddie A Look that Eddie purposely refused to meet. Cause yeah, sure, his background picture was the fucking factory setting generic swirl of colors and he organized his apps in neurotic little folders labeled ‘<em>social</em>’ and ‘<em>finance</em>’ and the only game in the folder neatly labeled ‘<em>entertainment</em>’ was fucking <em>Sudoku</em>, but none of that was a surprise considering he was still <em>Eddie</em>. Still perfectly, wonderfully Eddie.</p><p>So Richie shelved that thought and opened up the ‘<em>social</em>’ folder, not at all surprised to see Edward Kaspbrak didn’t have twitter.</p><p>“Is there someone we should have called?” Eddie asked, anxiety leaking into his tone, but Richie was only half listening, pulling up the app store.</p><p>“Mind if I download Twitter?”</p><p>“What? Go ahead,” Eddie hummed automatically, distractedly. With a tap, Twitter started loading up on Eddie’s homepage. “Richie, we didn’t know who to contact…”</p><p>“Hmm? Oh, my manager maybe – and <em>fuck</em>, I missed my Reno date. Shit. Oh man, he’s gonna fucking kill me.” It had been a long time since Richie had missed a show but ‘fighting an alien-fear-monster and recovering from a claw wound in the hospital’ seemed like a fairly valid excuse. Honestly, Richie wasn’t too worried about it at the moment, floating as he was down Oxycotton River.</p><p>It took Richie a few tries to remember his login and password for Twitter and then a few more to decide how he wanted to phrase what felt vitally important to express as immediately as possible.</p><p>“Really?” Eddie’s voice cut in, high and skeptical and worried-angry. Oh the varying shades of Eddie’s anger-as-a-cloaking-mechanism thing. Fuck, Richie had missed every single one of them. “Isn’t there someone you <em>aren’t </em>paying who’d be worried about you?” Richie glanced up in time to catch Eddie school his expression of intense curiosity to something tamer but still not subtle.</p><p>“My faithful husband’s already at my side, Eds,” Richie simpered with a saucy wink cause yeah, there was no way he wasn’t going to milk that for all it was worth in what little time on earth actual professional people with PhDs believed that the spiteful little hellion Eddie Kaspbrak would ever deign to marry <em>Richie</em>. The word ‘<em>husband</em>’ kept blasting on repeat in his brain like a fucking siren.</p><p>And also, the sad truthful answer to Eddie’s question was <em>no</em>. No one in Richie’s life outside of the Losers would miss Richie except for people he was paying but Eddie absolutely didn’t need to know that.</p><p>Eddie sighed in an annoyed kind of way before changing the subject. “The doctors think you’ll need at least a week in the hospital but you should be out of the ER today or tomorrow at the latest. Assuming you can keep from losing your shit every hour on the hour.”</p><p>“Cool, cool, cool,” Richie mumbled noncommittally, not really listening. He was too busy googling emoticons. He had to do this fast before he over-thought it. “No promises on the shit-losing thing though – I’ve got trauma out the wazoo.”</p><p>“Join the fucking club. But whatever that clown-fucker did got you pretty good. There’s a metal pin in your shoulder –”</p><p>“Neat, like Wolverine,” Richie’s mouth formed automatically while he pasted ‘i ❤╰⋃╯’ into the text box and his finger hovered over the ‘tweet’ button.</p><p>“Tch, you fucking wish dude,” Eddie bit back, reflexes as good as ever, and Richie smiled. “You might be hairy enough to be mistaken for an <em>actual </em>wolverine though.”</p><p>“Aw, still haven’t gone through puberty, Eds?”</p><p>It was the disgruntled, flat-eyed, <em>adorable </em>glare that pushed Richie into lowering his finger even though his heart was fucking racing. Eddie, seemingly noticing the rising number on his heart monitor, <em>visibly </em>restrained himself from biting back some no-doubt spectacular retort, the thought ‘<em>he’s invalid, don’t rile him up</em>’ practically scrolling across his forehead like a teleprompter. Richie started to laugh.</p><p>Then he second-guessed his tweet and turned back to Eddie’s phone to add another, ‘and not just my own 😉’, dropping the phone facedown at the edge of his bed.</p><p>Eddie started back in on explaining Richie’s back wound and his fucked up shoulder and all the tetanus shots and antibiotics and blood transfusions and the ungodly number of stitches he’d been given while he was unconscious but Richie never had the attention span for anything more complex than a fart joke so he let the cadence of Eddie’s adult voice sooth his frayed nerves and sank into his own thoughts.</p><p>Facing It wasn’t brave for Richie, not really. </p><p>For Eddie, precious fucking Eddie rambling on about average healing rates and infection statistic and blood born illnesses, It was the pinnacle of everything he ever feared chewed up together like too many gumballs crammed in your mouth at the same time until the wad was so big you nearly choked on it. To go down into the <em>sewer </em>and dredge through <em>actual</em> <em>shit </em>all to maybe most likely die a horrible death-by-clown or keel over from sepsis two weeks later when some hangnail got infected with grey water - that was the scariest thing Eddie could imagine and looking that head on instead of crumpling into an incoherent mess was fucking <em>incredible</em>.</p><p>But Richie wasn’t afraid of dying the way Eddie was. How could he be? He’d spent most of his twenties periodically or maybe <em>chronically</em> contemplating suicide and it wasn’t like his real life was <em>so good </em>that he was desperate to get back to it, even if it had been a while since he’d done something stupid enough to be considered a passive sort of attempt to take his own life. </p><p>Like the two month long bender he’d gotten wrapped up in on his last tour that he <em>still </em>didn’t remember a single fucking second of. Or the time he snorted <em>something </em>off a beautiful woman’s naked ass at a Hollywood party because what the fuck did he have to lose anyways? Or the time he got <em>really </em>drunk in his late twenties and let a guy take him to a sketchy apartment and nearly choke him out, ‘<em>let</em>’ being a specific and not entirely accurate description of the event.</p><p>No, walking straight into It’s lair wasn’t bravery for a man who only vaguely liked the idea of being alive even if he wasn’t actively seeking death. Richie didn’t like pain and he didn’t particularly want to be another casualty on the ever growing list of It’s victims and he’d <em>die </em>if something happened to one of his newly regained friends but he was much more afraid of Pennywise and his general fuckery than he was the concept of death.</p><p>No, <em>the clown</em> was what fucked Richie up because he knew Richies’s <em>dirty little</em> <em>secret</em> and the most terrifying thing Richie could imagine was being known. Being <em>outed</em>. All his friends finding out how often he’d daydreamed about what it would be like if they played truth or dare and someone was dared to kiss him except it was never Bev he pictured locking lips with.</p><p>As a kid he’d been so afraid of being known that he woke up every morning and put on The Richie Tozier Comedy Special just to be sure no one saw what was really going on underneath. He’d open his mouth and someone else would say, “<em>Look at the knockers on that broad</em>,” or “<em>I’d take her out to pasture if you know what I mean</em>,” or “<em>Your mom wasn’t complaining about my dick last night, Eds</em>.” Deflect deflect deflect!</p><p>He never looked too long at the quarry. He showed off in front of girls. He only let himself touch Eddie just a <em>little</em>, (as little as he could manage when <em>all </em>he wanted to do was touch), just enough to think about later, not so much it was weird. </p><p>The summer of It, when Richie opened up that casket in Neibolt house to find a rotting ventriloquist dummy, his first thought was ‘<em>oh yeah, that’s </em>definitely<em> me</em>,’ because he spent so much time trying to be the slightly more digestible version of himself he felt like a goddamn puppet and Derry was pulling the strings.</p><p>And god he hated that cum-sucking clown more than ever for taking his memories away because he’d <em>been </em>brave, just a little bit, after they smashed It’s fucking head in and dropped It down a hole in the sewers. Brave enough to reach for Eddie more often, brave enough to let Bev and Mike and Stan look at him quietly with knowing in their eyes without turning tail and running, brave enough to talk back to the assholes who called him a queer even if it meant getting punched in the nose.</p><p>And then he left Derry and <em>poof </em>all that was gone, his bravery lost like a cloud of smoke in a magic trick. Shoved to the back of the closet, back to living in fear, back to playing the heterosexual douchebag. He was that goddamn puppet all over again but this time it was his own hand up his ass.</p><p>So he kept all that baggage to himself. Obviously. And then it became a whole <em>thing</em>. His manager hired someone to help workshop his material and then Richie started landing better gigs and then that guy workshopping stuff started <em>writing </em>because Richie was partying too hard to put any effort into his sets and suddenly he was standing on stage talking about how much he liked rubbing his dick while he looked at women which was <em>hilarious</em> but he wasn’t laughing for the same reasons the audience was, that’s for fucking sure.</p><p>Now, for too many reasons to name, he wanted to be brave again. For that crazy, stupid Teenage Him who dreamed of moving away and coming out, for the Present Him who had watched Eddie die in the Deadlights and somehow miraculously pulled him away from that fate, for the Future Him who deserved something better than a life lived in fear.</p><p>“…so the slings gotta stay on for at least a couple weeks but even after that you’re going to need to take it easy for a while,” Eddie was still saying, words rolling off his tongue rapid-fire. “And, I mean, this is <em>Derry </em>so you’re going to want some other doctors to check you out since they undoubtedly fucked you up somehow but that’s later. You’ll probably need physical therapy too.”</p><p>The phone at Richie’s hip buzzed with a notification and Eddie scowled once he saw the pop-up – not in the half-endeared way he usually reserved for Richie but something serious and dark and a little haunted – and he swiped the message away. Then he blinked, squinted at the screen, and his mouth fell open with an audible pop.</p><p>“Did you just <em>come out</em>?” Eddie whisper-screeched, eyes bugging open crazily. “Did you just come out on <em>Twitter</em>? Using a fucking <em>emoji</em>?!” Every question had jumped an octave higher and Richie dissolved into laughter, immediately regretting it when his back twinged as he shook.</p><p>“An <em>emoticon</em>, technically,” Richie wheezed. “I didn’t think the eggplant would get the point across as clear. Oh fuck, you can’t make me laugh this hard, Eds!” he pleaded, trying not to disrupt his stitches and apparently failing. “It hurts!”</p><p>Eddie glared at him. “Good, I’m glad it fucking hurts. First the clown, now the <em>internet</em>. Dude, am I your best friend or not?”</p><p>It took a great deal of effort to keep the easy smile on his face because that was both <em>very </em>sweet and incredibly painful to hear. It always had been. If Richie could have been Eddie’s best friend, it would have spared him a lot of heartache. Instead he was desperately in love with the guy and Richie wasn’t <em>totally </em>sure what the rules were, but you probably weren’t supposed to be trying to imagine what your best friend’s dick looked like next to a beeper. Richie figured that had to qualify as some sort of violation of trust or ethical betrayal and almost certainly made Richie an absolute garbage person.</p><p>But hey, that wasn’t new. Sonia Kaspbrak had gotten it right all along. Richie Tozier <em>was</em> a dirty boy.</p><p>Richie screwed up his face into another saucy wink. “Technically you’re my<em> husband</em> so I’m pretty sure you know better than anyone -”</p><p>But Eddie interrupted him <em>way </em>too seriously and – what, was he <em>anxious </em>when he rushed to say, “If you’re not comfortable –”</p><p>And Richie practically tripped over himself to reassure him, “I’m gay, Eds.” And then, because being serious for more than a thirty second stretch was an actual form of torture and because Eddie did this painfully adorable little relieved sigh that <em>almost </em>made Richie cut himself open and spill his guts, he continued, “Like, <em>super </em>gay. I think about dick <em>all the time</em>.”</p><p>Eddie rolled his eyes, leaning back in his chair and obviously fighting off a smile. “Yeah, no shit, asshole. When we were kids, every other word outta your mouth was ‘<em>my dick</em>’ this and ‘<em>my dick</em>’ that. Fuck, I shoulda known you had a fixation.”</p><p>And Richie was laughing again, harder than he wanted to be, hard enough that he was pretty sure he could make out the feel of some of those stitches Eddie might have mentioned tightening across his skin, but Eddie wasn’t done. Thank the fucking Lord. Richie hoped Eddie would <em>never </em>be done.</p><p>“And this doesn’t even make sense,” Eddie continued holding up his phone to show Richie’s ‘i ❤╰⋃╯’ tweet and slicing the air with his other palm. “Are you <em>trying </em>to be ambiguous? Are you testing the fucking waters or something?”</p><p>“I was <em>trying </em>to be <em>funny</em>,” Richie snapped back, grabbing the phone out of Eddie’s hand and typing away.</p><p>“No wonder someone else writes your material,” Eddie grumbled and Richie fought off a smile.</p><p>“There,” Richie said, handing the phone back, entirely in love with the way Eddie rolled his eyes and scrubbed at his forehead while he digested Richie’s newest tweet.</p><p>“‘in case that wasnt clear enough, im gay’,” Eddie read aloud, teeth <em>actually </em>grinding at the letters Richie had very purposely left lowercase and the utter lack of apostrophes. He also wasn’t cursing Richie out or storming out of the room or quietly putting distance between them, the fear of which had kept Richie from coming out in his youth even post It Round One when he was <em>partially </em>sure the Losers would have handled the news kind of okay. And wasn’t that a fucking relief.</p><p>Then Eddie’s face fell and Richie nearly had a heart attack. “Shit,” he said, and Richie’s pulse was in his throat. “You’re all doped up on medication.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Richie said, utterly confused, “It’s great. So what?” There was another one of those pointed little Looks - one that Richie was going to <em>pointedly </em>ignore.</p><p>“So maybe I shouldn’t have let you do this – shit, I should have asked what you wanted my phone for. You might regret this later, Richie. I mean this could affect your <em>career</em>, right? And you’re all high on Oxycodone and clearly distressed, you keep on waking up screaming for fuck’s sake…”</p><p>“Eddie,” Richie said, heart back in his chest and swelling with more feelings than he was used to dealing with, tears threatening to gather in the corners of his eyes. “It’s okay. I <em>want </em>to do this.” Eddie still seemed unsure, huge dark eyes Bambi-sincere. “If all my friends can be brave, I can be brave too.”</p><p>The impossibly fond expression on his face made Richie <em>really </em>wish Eddie would hold his hand but Eddie was turning his phone over and over in his lap and looking at Richie like he’d never seen him before and Richie was too new to being brave so he curled his fingers into his palm and forced himself to be satisfied with Eddie here, at the ass-crack of dawn, sitting by his hospital bedside and looking out for him.</p><p>“Thanks for telling me, Richie,” Eddie finally said, breaking the prolonged silence – maybe the longest silence there had ever been between the two of them excepting when they were asleep. “I love you, man.”</p><p>And even though it wasn’t <em>exactly </em>the kind of love Richie desperately wished it was, it was something – more than Richie had in <em>years</em> – and if he started crying again, bigger, uglier tears, well, Eddie had just given him the perfect excuse to blame it on the Oxy.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Richie cried again a little later when the nurse walked in and off-handedly said “Oh good, you're up. Your husband's been so worried about you,” and Eddie - instead of throwing up or flipping a table or vehemently arguing with the lie he'd constructed because it was <em>bananas </em>for anyone to believe Eddie would ever look twice at Richie (even if he wasn't straight as a goddamn pencil) simply turned to her and asked a string of serious, thoughtful questions concerning Richie's recovery.</p><p>Once the sun was fully up, the rest of the Losers started trickling in individually because only two visitors were allowed at a time and Eddie didn't even pretend he'd give up his seat. So Richie held Mike's hand and cried some more, apologizing for leaving him (Richie was the last one that did), for forgetting him (he had tried <em>so </em>hard not to), and for making him bear the responsibility of remembering all alone (but Mikey would never need to feel alone again, Richie promised him that).</p><p>“I know,” Mike answered, doing that thing that so few other people did – <em>believing</em> in Richie in a way that made his promises extra real. “And I wasn’t the only one stuck in Derry, not really. I’ve been following your career.” He paused a moment then continued, “And I saw your tweet.”</p><p>“<em>Yeah, and we all heard what he yelled at the fucking clown</em>,” Eddie mumbled into the hand he was using to cover his smile.</p><p>Mike smirked. “I’m happy for you Rich. You deserve to be happy, too.” And if Mike got to cry, then Richie got to cry too, those were the fucking rules.</p><p>He cried some more when Bev sat down on the edge of his bed, laid a hand on his thigh and said, “Honey, I’m <em>so very proud of you</em>,” and then asked why he didn’t just use the eggplant emoji like a normal human being, though she at least appreciated the aesthetic choice. And then he <em>really </em>broke down when he caught sight of the bruises around Bev's wrists - the ones she wasn't bothering to hide anymore like she had the night at the Jade - and then discovered a new, ugly combination of cheering and sobbing when she outlined the divorce and criminal charges she'd already set in motion against her piece-of-shit husband, Eddie looking on with his eyebrows pinched together in confusion.</p><p>He thought he might have made it through the worst of it by the time he was sitting misty-eyed and listening to Ben mumble shyly about how Bev was so strong, how she'd talked about needing to lay low for a while, and how she'd taken him up on his offer to sail around the Mediterranean together for a few weeks – “Once you’re healed enough to go home, of course,” Ben rushed to promise. “We aren’t leaving anyone behind in Derry, not again.” And oh look, Richie was crying. <em>Again</em>.</p><p>Richie flat out sobbed when Bill came in and told him about the short, painful call he'd made to Stan's wife and Bill scooted onto the bed under Eddie's watchful, teary eyes to hold Richie as tight as he could without disturbing the huge slice up Richie’s back, pulling away apologetically when a nurse came in and pumped something into Richie's IV that made his feelings distant and easier to sit with, tutting about all the saline he'd need to keep hydrated when so much of it was coming right back out his eyes.</p><p>Eddie, the beautiful bastard, listened to the nurse chastise Richie with a ‘<em>I told you so</em>,’ look on his beautiful bastard face, swiping away his own tears of mourning before he flipped Richie the bird.</p><p>And maybe it was whatever the fuck the nurse had just pumped into him or the fact he was very much on the cusp of sleep but he was <em>pretty </em>sure Bill followed his devastating conversation about Stan with some real cryptic comments about Bowers – not that he ever said the name, not with Eddie fucking <em>glaring </em>at him like he wanted to set Bill on fire. And unless Richie was really reading Bill’s covert, carefully moderated comments about the library and the sewers and all the children who went missing and were never found again, Richie got the impression that Bill might have… disposed of Bowers’ body…? Which, like, <em>whaaaaaat???</em></p><p>If that was true - and considering Eddie’s constipated, determined look of resolution twisting his face into a serious pout – wow. Richie’s friends were <em>the best</em>, bar none. And oh, even half out of his mind and high as fuck, he still had more tears to cry, Eddie tutting quietly to himself and lifting Richie’s glasses up to dab them away because Richie was dead weight sunk into the mattress.</p><p>It had been years - <em>twenty-three</em> years to be exact - since Richie had cried so much. He belatedly remembered this unexpected after-effect of their brush with Derry’s haunted underbelly the first time around too, back when he was just a scrawny kid with too much shit stuck inside his head to know how to handle.</p><p>Back in the B.C. times (Before Clown – both pre 1989 and pre 2016), it took a pretty severe injury or personal slight to force him to tears. He spent the first thirteen years of his life trying his hardest not to cry, terrified of inviting even more humiliation upon his head, of attracting worse slurs than were already thrown at him, of tempting the comparison between ‘<em>pansy</em>’ and ‘<em>fag</em>’. So he shoved all his feelings down the same way he shoved his sexuality down, burying them under a carefully crafted cover persona - one that never let anything stick in a place that might hurt.</p><p>But in life A.C. (After Clown), his emotions swam so close to the surface that tears were never more than a blink away, his feelings so immense and ever-present, the softest scratch at his shields opened a floodgate.</p><p>All the Losers changed a little after that summer, coping the best ways they could. Stan stopped letting anyone touch him, pulling away from even the faintest brush of skin. Eddie started screaming matches almost daily with his mother. Mike obsessively dove into researching Derry and Bill threw himself into relationships with any girl who needed saving. Ben fretted constantly over the Losers and Bev beat the shit out of one of the girl-bullies at school to make sure everyone knew to leave her the fuck alone. None of them walked away the same. How could they after what they’d seen?</p><p>At thirteen, Richie had been embarrassed about how easy it was to get him going – no one knew what to do with a gangly, four-eyed, soon-to-be-six-foot-tall crybaby. The Losers always accepted his mood swings with grace but that didn’t mean he wasn’t annoying. Plus he was a <em>boy </em>and it was the eighties. He wasn’t supposed to cry. It was unmanly or whatever.</p><p>One of the upsides to being a jaded as fuck forty-year-old was that Richie no longer cared what <em>anyone </em>thought of him. Not the nurses who surreptitiously double checked his charts anytime they caught him bawling, not the doctor who very seriously asked if he was in a lot of pain, and not the janitor who shot him a pointed look when he came to empty the trash for the second time in one day. Richie simply kept accepting the tissues Eddie handed him, filling them up with snot, and tossing them into the garbage Mike had pulled closer to his bedside.</p><p>At some point – with the soft chatter of Eddie and Bill easing him into a comfortable lull, the combo of pain meds, benzos, and emotional healing conked Richie the fuck out.</p><p>Maybe it was talking to Mike and Ben about leaving Derry or maybe it was the revelation about all those tears or maybe it was the rush of drugs through his system – but whatever it was, Richie dreamed about the past. His memories had been siphoning back piecemeal - little shiny rewards for jiggling the right trigger in his brain – and every single one of them was so fucking precious Richie leaned into it as hard as he could.</p><p>He remembered his dad’s dentist office and the very specific clove oil smell of fillings, the smell both his parents came home carrying on their clothes and in their hair, undercut by the faint disinfectant tang that always reminded him of Eddie.</p><p>He remembered spending <em>years </em>hanging around in the waiting room at his dad’s office and crawling under his mom’s receptionist’s desk, his much older sisters dropping by to bring him home with them when they were let out of class and babysitting him all day Saturday before he started going to school and officially became old enough to wear a house key around his neck – a fucking latchkey kid to the bones.</p><p>He remembered being seventeen, sitting in the same clove oil/disinfectant smelling room, dread pooling in his stomach while he waited for his turn to be called back and pried open – his fucking wisdom teeth doing him dirty and growing in the wrong fucking way.</p><p>For most kids, it might have been reassuring to know it was their own folks digging around in their mouths, watching over them while they were unconscious and getting teeth yanked out of their skull, but most the time Richie’s parents felt about as familiar as strangers. <em>Nice </em>strangers – the kind that slid Richie a fiver every so often if he was too loud and they wanted him out of the house - but strangers all the same.</p><p>And he’d heard stories – stories about kids rambling after coming up from the knock-out drugs, filterlessly confessing things they’d later regret – and Richie was fucking <em>terrified </em>he’d open his big stupid Trashmouth and spill his big gay secret to <em>his parents</em> who – in retrospect, might not have taken that as horribly as he imagined - but at the time they were the very last people Richie would ever have willingly told. And since both of them would be in the damn room while he was getting his teeth pulled, the potential time for gut-spilling was double the going rate.</p><p>Richie had thought long and hard about asking Eddie to come with and drive him home after surgery, if only to get the fuck away from his parents as fast as he possibly could, but Eddie couldn’t know about the whole gay-thing either, or worse yet, the whole madly-in-love-with-him-thing, so Richie only mentioned going to the dentist off hand and swore like a sailor when Mike told him it was the busy season at the farm and he was really very sorry but he couldn’t get away.</p><p>Richie didn’t remember the immediate aftermath of the extraction, not in any clear way – he’d been drunk before, of course (it was buttfuck Maine for godssake, if you weren’t drinking by age fourteen what the fuck were you doing?) and whatever his dad used to put him under had a similar effect to being blackout drunk: brief moments of lucidity surrounded by nothingness.</p><p>One second he was walking past his mom’s desk and into the dental surgery room, the next he was sitting in the back of his dad’s station wagon. His cheeks were swollen and he had so much to say (his pre-drug commitment to keeping his mouth shut lost to Our Lady Anesthesia) but his mom kept hushing him because bloody cotton wads fell out every time he opened his mouth like he was the world’s shittiest piñata.</p><p>He also, in a very vague, unquantifiable way, desperately wanted Eddie there with him.</p><p>Turned out his ‘unquantifiable want’ was a lot less abstract.</p><p>When he woke up from what had to be the sleep of the dead, he was in his own bed, mouth still stuffed with cotton wads, cheeks crusty with tears, a warm solid presence behind his back and a skinny arm slung over his waist.</p><p>“Whhhuu,” he moaned, face and mouth aching, throat impossibly dry. The warmth behind him shifted, curling tighter against his back, and it was the familiar smell of laundry and sunshine and disinfectant that clicked everything into place.</p><p>Eddie was spooning him. <em>Eddie Kaspbrak</em> was <em>spooning</em> Richie Tozier. <em>Richie</em> was Eddie’s <em>little spoon</em> and by all rights that should have been ridiculous considering even after Eddie’s growth spurt he was still half a head shorter than Richie, but somehow he fit <em>perfectly </em>along the curve of Richie’s back.</p><p>Richie froze up, wracking his brain, trying to remember what <em>exact </em>sequence of events led him to this moment because that was <em>very important</em>. If he could do them again, maybe he’d be able to repeat the results. Ideally, Richie would sleep <em>every </em>night with Eddie curled up along his back like they were two noodles stuck together.</p><p>Still a little whacked out on drugs and proximity to Eddie, Richie laid as still as he could, trying to memorize the feel of Eddie pressed against him, breathing softly, <em>holding </em>him the way people in movies slept when they were in love.</p><p>It was unfortunate, then, that when Eddie shifted and his arm squeezed Richie around the middle, he ever-so-slightly gasped, inhaling a cotton wad and nearly choking to death.</p><p>By the time he stopped coughing and had a chance to duck his head deep into his trashcan to spit out all the bloody gauze (no way did he want Eddie to see that and be rightfully disgusted and definitely never spoon with him again), the moment was gone and they were both sitting up in his bed, Eddie’s hand resting bracingly on his back, ready to start thumping again if Richie tried to inhale anything else that wasn’t air.</p><p>“Fuck – sorry,” Richie gasped, glad (but also crushed) that Eddie didn’t look the least bit shy or self-conscious about having been woken up mid-cuddle. Meanwhile, Richie was pretty sure his face was full tomato-red and entirely too visible with the late afternoon sunlight streaming in through the tiny basement windows but at least he had the excuse of almost choking to death. “Spaghetti… what are you doing here?”</p><p>“Dude, you don’t remember?” Richie shook his head, very <em>very </em>concerned. Had he said something? Had he said something about <em>Eddie</em>? Had he gushed about his unwavering, overwhelming, inappropriate love? “Your parents came to pick me up cause you wouldn’t stop crying.”</p><p>“<em>What</em>?!” And wow, he didn’t know his voice could still go that high. It didn’t really, cracking in protest, and Richie wanted to die. Although crying was <em>a lot </em>better than some of the alternatives. “No way, I wasn’t <em>crying</em>.” But even as he denied Eddie’s accusation, he knew it was true. He could feel the dried, salty evidence on his cheeks.</p><p>Eddie grinned, that wicked, gloating turn of his lips that made Richie’s stomach do cartwheels. “You totally did, man. Fucking <em>sobbed</em>. Your parents pulled up in front of my house with you wailing in the back and once you saw me, you wouldn’t even let me change out of my pajamas. You just clung on like a koala.”</p><p>And <em>oh</em>. Look at that. Eddie was wearing Richie’s The Cure t-shirt – the one he’d lent him a few months before and never got back, the one that was already big on Richie and fucking <em>dwarfed </em>Eddie. Did Eddie sleep in it <em>all </em>the time? Were those his <em>collar bones</em> peeking out from the stretched out neck hole?! <em>Holy fuck</em>. Thank Moses whatever pain meds he was on meant his dick was thoroughly offline because he was going to spend <em>a lot </em>of time thinking about Eddie in his shirt later when his body was back up to working order.</p><p>Richie coughed. “Hey man, you’re the one who was doing a pretty good impression of a koala a minute ago.” And <em>why the fuck would Richie say that</em>?! Why would he make fun of Eddie for doing <em>exactly </em>the thing Richie super-desperately wanted him to do? <em>What the fuck was wrong with him</em>?</p><p>Eddie lifted his eyebrow and shot him a look drier than his mother’s vagina. “You were <em>weeping</em>, Richie. I’ve never seen you cry like that and you cry <em>all the time</em>.”</p><p>Eddie rightfully ignored Richie’s feeble, “<em>I do not</em>,” by steamrollering right over it.</p><p>“And you kept talking about Ben.”</p><p>The embarrassed grimace fell off Richie’s face in an instant.</p><p>Ben. He’d moved away only a few months prior and just like Bill before him and Beverly before Bill, all the promises to keep in touch turned out to ring hollow. Richie had been thinking about it on the nights he couldn’t sleep – on the nights he didn’t try to convince Stan or Eddie or Mike to let him crash on their floor or in their bed or on their couch - and he was starting to wonder if there wasn’t something more to it than growing apart.</p><p>Because sure, Beverly falling off the radar made sense in a way – the ‘aunt’ that took her in after the shit with her dad went down was notoriously flighty. In the two years they held out in Derry post It, they’d moved apartments four times. With that kind of lifestyle, who knows what would happen to the careful list of phone numbers Stan had written out for her.</p><p>Plus Bev had been too good for the Losers from the start. Without the shadow of her father hanging over her, what was keeping her from making better friends in her new cities, maybe even <em>girl </em>friends, who could offer her companionship in a way the Losers could not.</p><p>The radio silence after Bill’s departure was weirder but not impossible to imagine. His little brother had <em>died </em>in Derry and the ass-eating clown who did it owned the whole damn town. Richie got the logic of cutting and running, to a certain extent, even if Big Bill didn’t seem the type – had <em>never </em>been the type – in fact he was exactly the worst kind of stand-his-ground, fight-for-what-he-believes-in, come-hell-or-high-water asshole who got them roped into the monster mash in the first place.</p><p>But Bill was smart and had been applying for college prep classes when his parents finally gave up the ghost of Georgie and decided to find somewhere with less haunting memories. So maybe he was just… busy…</p><p>That’s what Richie told Eddie whenever he fake-disaffectedly mentioned that Bill never once called him even though he’d promised he would. Poor Eds. He’d worshipped Bill and he never even got a fucking postcard.</p><p>But Ben. Ben had sworn up and down he wouldn’t lose touch the way the others had and knowing Ben meant believing him – he couldn’t lie to save his life. And even though Ben was a goddamn gift to the universe, Richie knew full well the Losers were his first ever friends and he didn’t seem like the kinda guy who’d forget those roots.</p><p>But Ben hadn’t written. He hadn’t called. And no matter how many thin excuses Richie bounced around in his head, the fact of the matter is, you don’t kill an evil, kid-eating clown and just <em>throw away</em> the buddies you did that with – come <em>the fuck</em> on!</p><p>“I think they forgot us, Eds,” Richie finally said somberly, and the way Eddie screwed up his face in a scowl and started picking at a loose thread on Richie’s quilt told him Eddie had his own thoughts on the matter.</p><p>“Maybe that’s normal,” Eddie sighed, crossing his legs and arms and bunching up tight in angry little pile. “If I could get the fuck out of here, I’d go and never look back.” And oh, if Richie had any moisture to spare in his body he might have started crying again but he could already feel a dehydration headache coming on. Because sure, Richie got wanting to get the fuck out of dodge but if <em>Eddie </em>left, if <em>Eddie </em>forgot, what the fuck would Richie do?</p><p>“Yeah, it’s totally normal,” Richie bit out, a little harsher than he probably should have but Eddie wanted to leave him and that fucking <em>hurt</em>. “Normal like the way most adults forgot about Georgie. Or Betty Ripsom. Or Patrick Hockstetter.” Eddie looked a little sick.</p><p>Richie <em>hated </em>the idea of being forgotten, of all his friends leaving him behind, dragged away because they were kids and they didn’t get to make decisions about their own lives. There was always that bittersweet edge to the thought of leaving Derry, the bone-deep <em>thank god </em>of fleeing a place where evil was real - but to Richie, that it came at the cost of the Loser’s friendship was in no way a fair trade.</p><p>Fuck, Richie still remembered Bev’s sad little wave from where she’d shoved her upper half out the passenger seat window. And Bill’s teary face pressed to Richie’s shirt while his long arms squeezed the shit out of him, Stan’s phone list clenched in his hand. Or Ben, the center of a group hug the night before he left, voice tremulous with sobs and promises.</p><p>And now the group was whittled down to Eddie, Stan, and Mike. Richie didn’t think he could handle it no matter which one of them was next - he was going to fucking <em>lose </em>it, absolutely dive off the deep end, go full fucking whack-a-doo and get committed at Juniper Hill and then he’d <em>never </em>leave. Maybe Bowers could finally finish off the job in there.</p><p>There was a long moment of awkward silence while Richie fought off a shiver then he forced himself to at least <em>try </em>to sounds cheerful, for Eddie’s sake. “Anyways, can we go back to talking about how embarrassing I was all doped out on drugs?”</p><p>“Your whole existence is embarrassing, fuckwad,” Eddie said, friendly enough, a concerned-angry quirk to his eyebrows like he’d been reading Richie’s mind.</p><p>A little after that, Stan dropped by, letting himself into Richie’s basement/bedroom by way of the cellar door Richie always kept unlocked for the Losers, handing over a hot Tupperware container with so little flourish Richie took it absently and nearly burned his fingers.</p><p>Inside was soup – matzo ball soup – but the bloated doughy balls had clearly been lovingly shaped into three-pronged bulges that… that looked an <em>awful </em>lot like…</p><p>“Cocks,” Stanley said, completely straight faced. “Congratulations on losing the only part of you that could ever be called ‘wise’.”</p><p>“Matzo<em> cock-and-ball</em> soup,” Richie cackled, delightedly imagining what Rabbi Uris would have said if he’d seen his son stirring a pot filled with dick-dumplings, throwing himself onto Eddie to cackle into his lap because Stan was still standing prissily in his ‘<em>don’t you fucking touch me</em>’ pose and Richie could respect that. “Hey, hey Stan! There’s <em>no way</em> this counts as kosher, right?”</p><p>Richie woke up with a smile on his face and his glasses digging into his temples. The sky outside the window was dark and Richie had a half moment of panic trying to place where he was and how he got there but Eddie was in his direct line of sight, his scowling face under-lit by the glow of his phone as he frowned seemingly unseeingly down at his screen.</p><p>“Remember that time Stanley made me eat a bowl of dicks?” Richie asked, voice grating and dry. Eddie glanced up, darkening his phone and dropping it to the nightstand while his face scrunched up in thought. “After I got my wisdom teeth out.”</p><p>Richie knew the moment it clicked because Eddie’s face softened, a smile making his eyes glint where they met Richie’s gaze.</p><p>“You loved every second of it,” Eddie reminded Richie, laughing through his nose, raising a hand to cover his eyes. “You kept making those god awful <em>slurping</em> noises…”</p><p>“Had to make it authentic, right?” Richie quipped easily, amazed at his lack of fear response joking about <em>blow jobs </em>with <em>Eddie</em>. He was out now. He hadn’t checked his Twitter yet so it was anyone’s guess how the internet was taking the news, but his friends knew him and loved him and that was more than he’d ever imagined possible.</p><p>Richie tried to picture what Older Stanley would look like once he’d grown into that expression that was always a little too adult on him. He wondered if Stan was as handsome as all the other Losers turned out to be, if his hair was still so curly, if he still wore a yarmulke every Saturday and ironed all his clothes including his t-shirts.</p><p>“Stan woulda been proud of me,” Richie decided just then, suddenly able to picture crystal-fucking-clear the smug, parental look of satisfaction only Stan could pull off with any authenticity at the age of seventeen. “He woulda been proud of you too, Eds. Proud of all of us.”</p><p>Eddie watched Richie for a long moment and maybe, if Richie weren’t still faintly high, he might have been able to figure out what his expression meant but as it was, Richie blinked thickly and the look was gone.</p><p>“I think so too,” Eddie eventually agreed, softly and Richie hummed.</p><p>It was cruel, the moment Richie realized he’d never get an answer to all the questions he had about Stan, belatedly remembering why he wasn’t there with them, flying high on childhood-friend induced endorphins and planning a better future for himself the way everyone else was now they were finally free of It for good.</p><p>“Eddie,” Richie whispered, and oh look. More tears. “I miss Stan,”</p><p>“I know, Rich,” Eddie said on a sigh, scooting his chair forwards to lean his elbows on the edge of Richie’s bed and wipe at the tears running down Richie’s cheeks. “Me too.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Richie coming out was the closure he fucking deserved and I will never not be butt-hurt over the fact that the movie added this whole genius subplot that recontextualizes the book's fantastically haunting Adrian Mellon opening but doesn't use words to say Richie is Not Straight. Kinda feels like a cop out. </p><p>Anyways, rant over. Thanks for reading!</p><p>Find me on Twitter @BadNotso</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter Four</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: a smattering of Sonia's homophobia, mentions of past drug abuse</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Eddie let himself into Mike’s apartment, it was to find Ben and Bev laying curled up together on an air mattress in the middle of the living room. The early morning sunshine slanting through the attic window lit up the slightly distressing amount of dust motes floating in the air, giving the pair of them a fairytale quality – like two children who had fallen asleep in the woods after escaping a wicked witch, innocent and safe and a little painful to look at. They weren’t exactly <em>cuddling</em> - both curved towards each other with about a foot of space separating them, their faces close - but their hands were intertwined.</p><p>Eddie remembered nights like that, the seven Losers crammed together in the tight space in front of the TV in Richie’s basement. Richie’s parents had always been the most lax – maybe because they ran out of the will to parent by the time Richie’s older sisters went away to college while he was still in middle school or maybe because they had to take care of their dentistry business and didn’t have the energy when they got home to deal with Richie who was loud and troublesome and needed so much attention.</p><p>Not that they were <em>bad </em>parents – not the way that Eddie’s mom or Bev’s dad or Bill’s parents were after Georgie. When they were in the mood, they were supportive of all of Richie’s weirdnesses and oftentimes played along with him. Eddie had once watched the three of them act out an elaborate, impromptu comedy routine involving a baguette, an umbrella, and a watering can. But he'd <em>also</em> seen them drive away while Richie was literally reaching for the door handle of the car and not notice he was missing until they'd gotten halfway home, laughing when they doubled back to pick up Richie and Eddie where they’d left them at the curb of the movie theater. So he wasn't totally sure whether that evened out.</p><p>Eddie always kind of got the impression Mr. and Mrs. Tozier were relieved when they came home to find their basement packed with teenagers, happy to order a few pizzas for the group if it meant Richie wouldn’t harass them for the night, never once questioning Bev’s presence though sometimes Eddie wondered if it was because Bev had short enough hair to seamlessly blend into the group, especially since Richie’s poor eye-sight was genetic.</p><p>So Richie’s basement was the hotspot for Loser sleepovers – especially after their altercation with It and the undercurrent of fear that encouraged them to huddle close in the dark, sheltering together. They’d layout blankets and pillows on the floor, zip together their sleeping bags, pile together on and around the well-worn sofa and watch Richie’s curated selection of rented videos, throwing popcorn at each other and downing sodas by the liter. After they laughed themselves to exhaustion and crashed from the sugar high, they’d pass out, one by one, most the time still stretched out half on top of each other.</p><p>Richie always fought to sleep next to Eddie, climbing over anyone in the way, elbows and knees digging in hard if the unknowing victim didn’t move out of his path fast enough. Eddie assumed it was to better antagonize him – to poke Eddie in the cheek if he drifted off too early or tuck popcorn in his hair when he wasn’t paying attention. If Richie was the last awake, he’d whisper jokes in Eddie’s ear – mostly about the Bev Sandwich on the other side of the room (Bill, Bev, and Ben always lined up in a row by the time they fell asleep) or talking back to the characters on TV in a stupid robot voice like he was fucking Tom Servo or something while Stan murmured angrily on Richie’s other side telling the two of them to shut up and stop giggling and <em>go the fuck to sleep</em>.</p><p>Most sleepovers, one of Richie’s bony hands found a way to lay on Eddie’s arm or back, the warmth and weight of it comforting as Eddie drifted off and they’d wake up at noon the next day, discarded popcorn kernels and melted Snowcaps stuck to their skin, Richie’s glasses lost to the tangle of sheets.</p><p>So it made a lot of sense that Ben and Bev were doubled up. Old comforts were surprisingly easy to fall back on (wasn’t Eddie just as guilty of that, watching Richie’s bandaged back rise and fall as he healed and slept). The couch next to the air mattress on Bev’s side was covered in a crumpled sheet – probably where Bill had slept. Another Bev Sandwich. Richie would be happy about that. Eddie snapped a quick picture to show him later.</p><p>Richie had been awake when Eddie left the hospital (awake and talking with Mike and Bill in the new room a little away from the ER that they’d moved him into the second morning of his stay) which meant Eddie didn’t need to be in a rush. Richie hadn't been given anything that wasn’t a painkiller, an antibiotic, or saline since the second day when Bill came in to talk about Stan and Richie sobbed hard enough to tear a few of his stitches. So long as he kept his stupid ass calm, Eddie had at least a few hours before Richie talked himself to sleep and ran the risk of waking up from a nightmare frantically calling Eddie’s name.</p><p>Still, Eddie didn’t want to be away for long so he tiptoed through the new collection of boxes (the Losers were sleeping over at Mike’s to help him pack) and made his way to the shower.</p><p><em>Richie </em>was the one who could really use a shower – his hair still smelled like the sewer, the scent of blood and death clinging to his skin like a cloak. Eddie wondered if that inescapable stench was feeding into his nightmares (it was obvious he was dreaming about the clown, about the claw that sliced him open, about the moment he shoved Eddie over and took that hit himself) but the nurses wanted to wait another day before letting him attempt to clean himself in the small stall in his private bathroom, more for the sake of his dislocated shoulder than anything else, his back wound looking slightly less horrifying and angry than it had the first day but steadily leaking a puss-y kind of fluid which everyone promised was a good sign even if it was disgusting.</p><p>Robotically Eddie unpacked his toiletries and laid out the fresh change of clothes he’d picked out of his luggage, unzipping his hoodie and pulling it off. Richie’s broken glasses fell out of his pocket, one of the lenses cracked, blood still caked in the thin line on the glass. Eddie debating throwing them away – the lens was totally fucked and Richie was currently wearing the spares Eddie had found in his duffle shoved in the passenger seat of his fuck-off rental (the one double parked in the library lot, that asshole, until Bill stole Richie’s keys and claimed it as his own) so he probably wouldn’t miss them.</p><p>A glance in the mirror showed Eddie’s own cut was healing well despite Eddie’s worries about infection and scaring and blood-borne pathogens (how many other fucking people had Bowers stabbed with that knife? nevermind, he <em>did not </em>want to know). Sarah had done a neat job with the stitches even if Eddie had to periodically remind himself to stop tonguing at the strange intrusion of them inside his mouth.</p><p>He was going to have a scar; that was obvious from the thick pink line of it, an inch and a half long perpendicular to the natural frown line on his cheek. Eddie was going to be a man with a <em>face scar</em>. He huffed out a quiet laugh of disbelief that pulled faintly at his stitches. Eddie never gave much thought to his face (except to know it was mundane at best and prematurely-aged at worst) and his mother, if she were still alive, would absolutely flip a shit if she knew his visage would forever be marred by the evidence of violence.</p><p>Turning his face and studying the line of it, a hand tracing the skin next to it to feel the slight sting of agitation, Eddie decided that he didn’t <em>hate </em>it. Was it absurd for him, Edward Kaspbrak, risk analyst and hypochondriac, to have a face scar? Yes. But, much like his broken arm when he was a kid, it was a reminder that Eddie was tougher than his mother or his wife believed he could be. He’d seen pain and horror and fear and stood strong beside his friends to vanquish it. He’d done something brave. And there on his face was the proof of that.</p><p>Besides, Richie’s back was going to be a fucking mess, probably forever, so at least he wasn’t the only one walking away with scars.</p><p>And if, for half a second, staring at his own reflection in Mike’s over-the-sink mirror, he almost expected Bowers to loom up behind him, that thought was shockingly easy to push aside.</p><p>‘<em>I stabbed you, bitch</em>,’ he told the fantasy Bowers in the mirror, Richie’s broken glasses curled in his fist. ‘<em>And Richie caved your head in with an axe. You can’t hurt any of us anymore because me and my friends are brave and you’re a mullet wearing psychopath who never passed the ninth grade</em>.’</p><p>It was a good thing Eddie’s face wasn’t terribly used to smiling because the small quirk to his lips tugged at his healing wound.</p><p>As Eddie scrubbed himself down (<em>very</em> thoroughly, he’d spent the last two days in the hospital and still wasn’t convinced he’d gotten all the sewer off him the last time he’d showered), Eddie let his mind wander to the thoughts he’d been obsessing over almost all night long.</p><p>Thoughts like: What was Richie’s deal? Had he been in love with Stan when they were kids? Was Richie (or could he even be if he hadn’t seen him in twenty-three years) <em>still</em> in love with Stan?</p><p>The problem was Eddie wasn’t the best at that kind of interpersonal shit. He’d never been good at reading subtlety – for fuck’s sake he’d never even realized Richie was <em>gay </em>even though the way Bev and Mike talked about it in private made him think it was somehow obvious. No, Eddie was the kind of person who usually needed people to spell out their feelings but something about Richie’s behavior was weird enough for him to start drawing a faint line between him and Stanley Uris.</p><p>The way he’d completely fallen apart when Bill told Richie about talking to Stan’s wife had been the biggest clue. The fact that he needed to be fucking <em>sedated </em>so he wouldn’t hurt himself and then woke up with Stan’s name on his fucking lips sealed the idea in Eddie’s head.</p><p>And in some ways, that probably made sense. Of all the Losers, Richie and Stan knew each other longest, meeting in synagogue or temple or whatever the fuck it was called (Eddie’s mom had never pushed religion on him except in the way that she thought Jews were evil and Catholics were evil and Everyone was evil so he didn’t have a super great grasp on the right terminologies). Bill and Eddie merged with them sometimes around the second grade but apparently the year or so they had together forged a different kind of bond between them.</p><p>Eddie remembered the months after Stan moved away the moment Richie woke up from his sedatives and started quietly weeping, Eddie helpless to do anything about it but try to keep up with the tears slipping down Richie’s heartbroken face.</p><p>Stan moved away unexpectedly in August the summer before senior year. It was such short notice (hardly a week between hearing the news and Stan climbing into his precious Corolla and driving away slowly, following his parents’ sedan) that Richie had stood flabbergasted on Stan’s lawn watching where his car disappeared for five minutes (Eddie had timed it) before breaking down into the same kind of tears he’d cried when Bill told him about talking to Stan’s wife.</p><p>Ben had left less than a year earlier and Richie was still in shock over that – he refused to set foot in the clubhouse and even though he liked to play it off like it was because he’d grown out of it, half-joking the thing would collapse on top of them, Eddie knew it was really because it hurt to be there, surrounded by the walls Ben had built for them.</p><p>But Stan was Richie’s breaking point. Before that, it wasn’t unusual for Richie to invite himself over to Eddie’s for the night every once in a while – the two of them conferring about it earlier in the day so Eddie could sneak him into his room after his mom took her nightly sleeping pills. After Stan left, Richie showed up at Eddie’s window at least twice a week, climbing over the dresser and peeling off his jeans to cram himself in next to Eddie on the twin bed, usually gripping a fistful of Eddie’s t-shirt like he was worried Eddie would vanish in the night. Richie also started ditching a lot more classes and somehow, no matter the situation, he always had a six pack and a joint on hand even though Eddie had no idea how he managed that.</p><p>At the time, Eddie figured it was Richie’s inevitable response to one more of the Losers drifting away to never be heard from again. But had that really been him mourning the loss of his childhood love?</p><p>The thing that really made Eddie the worst was that even though he <em>hated </em>seeing Richie struggling to hide his sadness behind his goofy comedy acts, some part of him <em>liked </em>having Richie all to himself most the time, Mike so often busy with the farm or too far out of town to swing by to watch the evening line up of <em>Seinfeld</em> and <em>The Simpsons</em> before rushing home to make it in time for dinner. Eddie loved the Losers and he missed them every fucking day but there was something empowering about having <em>all </em>of Richie’s attention completely honed in on him. He never felt <em>small </em>with Richie, even when the dumbass was calling him pipsqueak or short stack or pintsized.</p><p>And after Stan left, the two of them became inseparable – as much as they could manage with Sonia Kaspbrak perpetually breathing down their necks. She particularly hated Richie, harping on calling him <em>dirty </em>and <em>nasty </em>and <em>wrong</em>. At the time Eddie thought it was because Richie was somehow always mysteriously wet or covered in dirt or sticky with dripped ice cream. Now he wondered if his mother saw something Eddie had not – if her never-ending lectures about AIDS were targeted towards Richie <em>specifically</em>. After all, she took Eddie’s bedroom door off its hinges the spring before he left for college when she woke one morning to find Richie’s footprints trailing from the window in the late season snow. Furious, Eddie reattached it himself and added two new locks just to spite her.</p><p>The idea that during all that Richie had been pining over Stan kind of hurt. It hurt to think Richie was in pain and Eddie had so willfully ignored the signs. Hurt to wonder if Richie had been imagining Stan in bed beside him when he’d gripped Eddie’s shirt in the dark. Hurt to discover <em>again </em>there was this massive part of his best friend he’d never known, even if it made a horrible sort of sense looking back on things.</p><p>After all, Stan was the only one who could make Richie calm down and sit quietly – not even by yelling at him or ordering him around or getting angry the way teachers at school always did when Richie couldn’t keep still and close his mouth. Instead Stan would lower his voice, speak softer, engage Richie in whatever he was doing; talk about the bird he was watching or the book he was reading or whatever thoughts were in his head. And Richie would go down like a fucking tree, throw himself onto the ground next to Stan, blinking his stupid magnified eyes and <em>actually fucking listen</em> like he was goddamn hypnotized.</p><p>Stan loosened up around Richie too – more so than he did with anyone else at least, which maybe wasn’t saying much. Richie teased out the secret, playful side of Stan he hid so well under a layer of responsibility and expectation, helped along by how gamely Richie accepted the brunt of Stan’s sarcastic jokes with delight. Only Richie could get Stan to smirk at a dick joke – that was for fucking sure.</p><p>But on the other hand, Richie liking – <em>loving</em> - being <em>in </em>love with – Stan made <em>no </em>fucking sense because Richie wasn’t supposed to be <em>quiet </em>or <em>calm </em>or <em>still</em>. He was loud and obnoxious and a fucking disaster but that’s what made Richie <em>Richie</em>.</p><p>Then again, opposites attract, right? That was a thing people said, wasn’t it? And the two of them were pretty fucking opposite.</p><p>And what the fuck did <em>Eddie </em>know about attraction anyways? He’d spent his entire adult life assuming love and lust were made up by Hallmark and Hollywood respectively. He had never loved anyone as deeply as the people on TV did – not even his mother (which now, with some of his memories back, made <em>a lot</em> of fucking sense) or his wife (who he’d married because she’d started making comments about what people would think of him if he didn’t and at least her brand of love felt comfortable and familiar, <em>jesus fucking christ</em>).</p><p>Having the Losers back was troubling as much as it was a blessing. His heart was full in a way Eddie was <em>very </em>much unused to – and it was a strange, tight feeling. It <em>should</em> have been uncomfortable, cramming them all inside a space too small, except it wasn’t, his whole body filling with warmth and happiness like he was swallowing down sunlight. Looking at Bev and Ben’s sleeping faces had nearly burst his chest open with love and they were just <em>lying </em>there. Not even conscious. <em>What he fuck was that about</em>?</p><p>And fuck, if he had to hear Richie wake himself up screaming again, he was probably going to set himself and the entire hospital on fire out of impotent fury. Well no, he wouldn’t do that. The hospital was trying to help. They <em>were </em>helping. It just seemed like there was some other shit going on with Richie that couldn’t be fixed with surgery, some stitches, and a sling.</p><p>Like being heart-broken over Stan, apparently. And the well-known fact that Richie had a drug problem – or at least <em>had </em>a drug problem in the 2000’s when he kept making headlines for destroying expensive hotel rooms (Eddie was privately following Richie’s career by then and filed those articles away in his ‘<em>why do I like this stupid fucking comedian</em>’ tab always open and accumulating more notes in his brain) – and was only growing more likely to slip back into bad habits with all the prescription painkillers he’d be given once he was discharged from the hospital. Not to mention Richie’s nightmares and his arm being fucked up and his back which he’d eventually have to start bandaging himself except <em>how the fuck was he going to do that</em>?</p><p>It was with that thought in mind that he dried himself off, quickly and carefully shaved around his stitched up cheek, and pulled on his clean clothes, pocketing Richie’s broken glasses automatically (he’d ask Richie what he should do with them later).</p><p>The Losers had unanimously come to the decision that none of them would leave until they could <em>all </em>leave which Eddie was grateful for because he could no sooner picture going back to New York than he could imagine getting in a rocket and going to the fucking moon. And none of them acted like it was <em>weird </em>that he had to be talked out of Richie’s room, even just to grab a meal or a shower (which wasn’t how his wife would be handling his behavior), but that was just how the Losers functioned; as a unit. And Eddie’s nerves were going to be all over the place <em>at least </em>until Richie was out of the hospital but probably for a while after because again, the stupid asshole had never been good at taking care of himself and he’d thrown himself on top of Eddie like a fucking shield without the faintest trace of hesitation. <em>What the fuck</em>.</p><p>When he re-pocketed his phone, it was to find that Myra had called him once while he was in the shower, sent him three more texts, and wrote him a lengthy email that started with ‘<em>Eddie, you know you can’t handle the stress of being away from home…</em>’ but Eddie stopped reading and swiped it away. His voicemail was still full from her first twenty calls and he hadn’t listened to them or erased any so she didn’t have the option to leave any more.</p><p>The fact that Eddie hadn’t called or messaged Myra probably took him out of the running for husband of the year (not that he’d qualify for that under any other circumstances either, something Myra assured him of quite frequently). But she was worried and ignoring her definitely made him an asshole but he still somehow didn’t care. His text chat with her was a whole block of grey bubbles, all one-sided, all with the same intent. <em>Come home Eddie. You need me Eddie. Why are you doing this, Eddie? Just talk to me, Eddie.</em></p><p>But Eddie knew too well that talking to Myra would end with his bags packed and his car on the road back home and that wasn’t what he <em>wanted</em> – not at all - but she could be persuasive. <em>Too </em>persuasive. And he didn’t trust himself to hold his ground. And if that made him a shitty husband… he’d think about that later. Once Richie was out of the hospital and he could focus all his brain power on deciding how he felt about… <em>everything else</em>.</p><p>Ben was still asleep when Eddie let himself quietly out of the bathroom but Bev was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping at a cup of tea and looking otherworldly-beautiful with her hair sleep tussled and her face clean of make-up. Dark but healing bruises trailed up her arms and Eddie frowned at them, wondering what the clown had done to give her those. She caught his eyes and her lips turned up but it looked more like a grimace than a smile.</p><p>“How’s the patient, Dr. K?” she asked, voice low to keep from waking Ben.</p><p>“Annoying, but that’s nothing new. Pretty sure he was trying to convince Mike to move to LA with him when I left.”</p><p>“Mike always struck me as more of a Pacific Northwest kind of guy.” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “Then again, Bill lives in LA, right?”</p><p>“I think?” Eddie answered, not sure how those two facts were related.</p><p>A knowing, “Hmmm,” was Bev’s cryptic reply. “Tea?” she offered, lifting her cup.</p><p>“I should probably get back…” Eddie trailed off, his phone buzzing in his pocket and he stiffened. Another message from Myra. ‘<em>You’re so fragile, Eddie, what are you doing to yourself?</em>’ Eddie hid a flinch.</p><p>“You know –” Bev said abruptly, both her hands wrapped around her cup, leaning towards him with her elbows on the table. The bruises on her wrist looked an awful lot like fingerprints. “If you need to talk to someone, I’m around. All of us are now.”</p><p>Eddie rubbed at his forehead and nodded. “Thanks Bev,” he said, not knowing what else there was to say or <em>how </em>to say it. It had been so long and he was out of practice putting his thoughts into an order that could be spoken out loud.</p><p>Bev, seemingly reading that from his face, smirked and went on, “I don’t think I liked the person I was without you guys.”</p><p>Eddie froze in shock, Bev’s smirk softening when she glanced towards the living room. That single sentence was the rawest thing Eddie could imagine hearing but the way Bev said it – like it wasn’t fundamentally horrible, like it wasn’t tearing her apart, like it was something she could <em>change</em> – somehow hurt Eddie so much more.</p><p>She shrugged, a coy tilt to her lips making her grin as mischievous as it had been when she was fifteen and pretending to be his mother on the phone to excuse the periods Eddie ditched. “I don’t think I’m gonna be that person anymore.”</p><p>A noise was punched out of Eddie’s diaphragm, a shocked, huffy sound, and Bev raised her tea cup in salute.</p><p>It was with those parting words circling through his brain that Eddie found himself parked outside a Starbucks a block away from the hospital.</p><p>Eddie didn’t drink coffee. It was <em>bad </em>for you – his mother told him so when he’d once made the mistake of bringing home a cup from the NYU cafeteria during finals week (she made him pour it down the sink) and Myra was just as strongly against it. She said the caffeine would mess with Eddie’s circadian rhythm, that it would give him heart palpitations, that it was addictive and bad for his teeth.</p><p>But it was weird, right, being forty fucking years old and never having drank a cup of coffee? That <em>wasn’t normal</em>, right? People did it all the time, people did it <em>every day</em>. He had coworkers who downed cup after cup of the stuff and they weren’t dropping dead of heart attacks or complaining about never getting any sleep.</p><p>And there were studies that suggested coffee might be <em>good </em>for you. Eddie had researched it obsessively and somewhat rebelliously when Richie made an offhand joke about downing too much espresso and shitting his pants at a farmer’s market on a talk show which was a little embarrassing (both Eddie’s research and Richie’s pants-shitting story) now that he was about to see Richie’s <em>actual</em> face, live and in person.</p><p>Eddie still hadn’t merged the part of him that knew every word Richie had spoken on camera with the one who’d seen his gawky fucking chicken legs sticking out under his high school gym uniform shorts with the one that practically carried Richie’s half-dead body out of a collapsing house. They all seemed like very separate parts of Eddie and they wouldn’t slot together no matter how he twisted them around.</p><p>But that was something to worry about later. Right now, Eddie was going to get a coffee and he was going to drink it because he didn’t want to be the person his mother fought so hard to turn him into and according to Bev, he could just <em>stop being that person</em> if he wanted to. That didn’t sound exactly right but a single coffee wasn’t going to <em>kill </em>him and Eddie wanted to be brave. He <em>liked </em>being brave. He wanted to walk into Richie’s hospital room holding a Starbucks cup and listen to that idiot sasquatch beg for a sip the way he’d done when Bill and Mike came in with to-go cups from the hospital cafeteria.</p><p>So he got out of the car, marched into the Starbucks, took one look at the menu board and almost walked right back out again.</p><p>But Eddie’s fingers tightened around the broken glasses in his pocket and he reconsidered. Richie hadn’t <em>saved Eddie’s life </em>so he could run in fear from a fucking <em>coffee shop</em> so fuck that, he was standing his fucking ground.</p><p>It was <em>confusing</em>. What the fuck was a Frappuccino? Or a Macchiato? And why the fuck did they list their sizes as tall, grande, and venti? Were they too fucking good for small, medium, and large? Were they trying to <em>prove </em>something? Were they some goddamn club with code words and secret fucking handshakes?!</p><p>With no line in front of register, the young man behind the counter seemingly took pity on Eddie and called him over with a friendly customer service wave that Eddie deeply resented.</p><p>“Can I get you something?” the young man asked and Eddie quickly gauged his seeming sincerity and thought, <em>be brave</em>.</p><p>“Can I get a cup of coffee?” Eddie asked, direct and to the point.</p><p>“Sure, what kind?” the asshole asked and Eddie grimaced. Wow, Eddie <em>hated </em>this.</p><p>“What kind is good?”</p><p>“Do you like dark roasts or light?”</p><p>Eddie balked. The guy had to be fucking with him, right? How many different kinds of coffee were there?</p><p>“I don’t know.” Eddie’s thumb traced the spider web of cracks on Richie’s glasses. “I’ve never had… anything from here,” Eddie admitting, segueing away from saying ‘<em>I’ve never had coffee before</em>’ because he was still pretty sure that was weird and he didn’t need some baby-faced teenager with a nose ring looking at him like he was having a midlife crisis in a fucking coffee shop because <em>that wasn’t what was happening</em>, okay?</p><p>“Oh!” the guy said, sounding weirdly genuinely delighted, and something about the slightly uneven way his eyes squinted when he smiled instantly reminded Eddie of Richie. Eddie breathed out a fraction of his tension. “Well, do you want straight coffee or a blended drink?”</p><p>“What do you recommend?” The kid, thank fucking god, didn’t seem annoyed by the question at all.</p><p>“Do you like sweet drinks?” he asked first.</p><p>Myra had Eddie strictly watching his sugar intake. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten anything sweet that wasn’t a piece of fruit and even <em>those </em>were in in moderation, so he immediately answered, “Yes.”</p><p>“Milk okay?”</p><p>“No, I’m lactose intolerant.”</p><p>“Almond milk or soy?”</p><p>“Yeah, that works. Almond,” Eddie said, surprised he was still being accommodated. A second employee had wandered over, giving Eddie the kind of look he was a little more used to. Apprehensive. Like Eddie might start biting their heads off if they didn’t bend over backwards for him. Eddie tried his best to minimize his scowl.</p><p>“Hot or cold?”</p><p>The scowl was back. This kid was <em>definitely</em> fucking with him. Coffee was supposed to be hot, right? “Hot,” Eddie half barked, reining it in when the second employee flinched.</p><p>“Espresso okay?”</p><p>“Definitely,” Eddie answered, thinking of Richie’s stand-up.</p><p>“Okay, I’m gonna make you one of my favorites,” the nose-pierced kid said, writing something on the side of the cup and handing it off to the other employee who quickly got to work. Eddie was <em>intensely </em>glad there wasn’t a line behind him watching him flounder, distractedly handing over cash to pay for his mystery order.</p><p>In less than a minute, the coffee-making employee was handing over a warm cup with a paper hand-protector and Eddie asked himself for the first time ‘<em>what if I’m allergic to coffee</em>?’ The thought dragged him up short and he paused, cup halfway up to his lips.</p><p>But… that thought hadn’t come to him in <em>his </em>voice. It was the voice of his mother and the voice of his wife.</p><p>Abruptly, Eddie decided ‘<em>fuck it</em>.’</p><p>Or, honestly, maybe it was a little more like ‘<em>fuck you</em>.’</p><p>He took a careful sip, slightly burning his tongue on the hot drink, very aware that two kids who couldn’t be out of college were witness to his first sip of coffee and feeling completely fucking ridiculous for it.</p><p>The first mouthful was mostly foam but underneath that, the drink was sweet and creamy but not cloyingly so. He could still taste the bitterness of what he assumed was the espresso, a not entirely pleasant tang, but one that warmed him up with a defiant sort of pride.</p><p>“Good?” the register guy asked, smiling. “It’s a caramel macchiato.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Eddie answered, surprising himself with his vehemence. “Yeah, it’s good.”</p><p>Instead of thanking them (too mortified to acknowledge that a <em>child </em>had carried him through what was a completely normal social exchange for 64% of the American population), he shoved a five in the tip jar and left, warm cup in hand, tongue still tingling from the faint burn of his first sip.</p><p>When Eddie walked into the hospital, he spotted Sarah at the nurses’ station so he swung by, hoping to ask about Richie’s morning bandage swap and how his stitches were healing. When he approached she looked up and smiled, a strange enough phenomenon considering his face alone usually garnered a guarded kind of look, like people could tell from a distance that he was going to be high maintenance (the second Starbucks employee came immediately to mind). Stranger still was the way she greeted him with a friendly, “Hey there, Eddie.”</p><p>Something must have shown on his face - the nurses and doctors that streamed through Richie’s room cordially addressed him as Mr. Kaspbrak without introduction so someone must have made a note in Richie's file, probably Sarah herself - because Sarah winced a bit with a crooked grin. “Sorry, Mr. Kaspbrak. Richie’s been talking about you all morning and I guess ‘Eddie’ stuck in my head.”</p><p>“Eddie's fine,” his mouth answered automatically, a brief flash of Myra’s pinched scowl flashing behind his eyes (she always insisted he go by Edward when he was in professional settings, said <em>Eddie </em>was too informal, too private, too childish, just for her). He circled back to the subject on hand, immediately defensive. “He’s been talking about me? What's that idiot saying?” </p><p>But Eddie could guess. ‘<em>Sorry about Eddie. It's probably best to just ignore Eddie. Neurotic, annoying, hypochondriac Eddie</em>.’</p><p>But Sarah was smiling, her eyes on the desk where she was ruffling through a stack of papers. “Oh just a bunch of cute stuff. Like how you've known each other since you were kids and about how you’ve, and I quote, ‘<em>kept him from killing himself with stupidity</em>.’” Eddie blinked, perplexed. “Oh, and how he thinks you're the funniest person he knows.” Sarah glanced up, grin broadening when she saw Eddie's face. “You're blushing.”</p><p>“No I'm not.” Eddie definitely was, though he couldn’t for the life of him imagine <em>why</em>.</p><p>“Whatever you say, Eddie,” she laughed, pulling a paper from the stack and scurrying off before he remembered to ask about anything else.</p><p>Eddie turned away, confused. The stuff about them being kids together and Eddie keeping Richie’s stupid ass alive was unarguable. The asshole tried to microwave foil once, for fuck’s sake.</p><p>But the thing about being funny? <em>No one</em> thought Eddie was funny except in the insulting, ‘<em>what a funny little man</em>’ kind of way that he <em>knew </em>a few of his coworkers were thinking when they shot him indulgent, sarcastic smiles. And Richie was a<em> professional comedian</em>. He'd met Conan O'Brien and worked on SNL with Tina Fey and was once rumored to be dating Amy Schumer (though knowing what Eddie knew now, that last one probably wasn’t true). Who the fuck was Eddie in comparison to that?</p><p>But… Richie <em>did</em> always laugh at the shit Eddie said, oftentimes unreasonably hard, eyes scrunched behind his glasses and overbite on full display. And his laughter was bizarrely rewarding so maybe Eddie spent <em>a little</em> bit of effort trying to get Richie to smile but that didn’t make him <em>funny</em>.</p><p>Besides, with Richie it came easy, jibes and insults and jokes. He never felt more clever than when he was sparring with Richie - that had always been the case, brain working overtime to out-smart him, to out-sass him, to make Richie <em>work </em>for Eddie’s laughter - and it was amazing (or maybe mortifying) how easily Eddie fell back into that habit again as a full grown adult. </p><p>No one else let him have fun like that. If his co-workers or his wife or her friends heard even the tamer half of the shit he said to Richie, they'd be fucking <em>scandalized</em> but the crasser Eddie got, the harder Richie laughed.</p><p>Now that Richie was out of the ER, the rule of two visitors at a time were more lax, owing possibly to the way Richie kept dopily sweet talking the nurses into inexplicably liking him (though personally, Eddie thought Richie was cheating by being a low-level celebrity in a small town hospital).</p><p>Whatever the case, no one stopped him from entering the room even though Bill and Mike were taking up both the single seats, fully immersed in a hushed but heated debate about something related to Bill’s book. Eddie heard the word ‘<em>wendigo</em>’ thrown around and immediately tuned it out because he had a feeling he knew which book they were talking about and it hadn’t been Eddie’s favorite.</p><p>Richie, surprisingly, seemed content to watch, sitting up with his legs crossed under the sheet, looking at Bill and Mike with the kind of open fondness Eddie hadn’t seen very often on his younger face. When Richie spotted Eddie lingering in the doorway, he cried, “Eds!” and lit up with a million-watt smile. Eddie tried not to let that go straight to his head but Eddie was pretty sure his spine straightened and he grew three fucking inches.</p><p>“What? Et tu, Edde?!” Richie complained, still fucking smiling, spotting the Starbucks cup in Eddie’s hand and making grabby hands for it almost exactly as Eddie as predicted. “A sip! Just a <em>sip</em>! Would you deny a dying man a sip of water?”</p><p>“You’re not <em>dying</em>, asshole,” Eddie said, taking an exaggerated pull from his coffee and squinting his eyes while he thought over the flavor. Coffee was bitter but the almond milk and caramel offset the bite. And he could feel himself waking up more fully, the fatigue of the last few days siphoning away as his brain kicked into gear. “Not anymore at least.”</p><p>“Don’t be so <em>dramatic</em>,” Richie griped before pulling a very impressive pout that transformed his face into something very pathetic and very funny. Adult Richie was already a strange caricature drawing of a man and with his big eyes magnified by his thick glasses, he looked like the illustration beside the word ‘disappointment’ in the dictionary.</p><p>Eddie rolled his eyes and held out his cup. “Fine. <em>Only a sip</em> or Sarah will have my fucking head.”</p><p>Richie cheered (a kind of pathetic thing since he couldn’t move much without interfering with his back wound) and accepted the cup, sniffing the steam coming out of the lip hole emphatically, his whole face lighting up in excitement. “No, Sarah loves your fucking head, almost as much as I do. She told me so this morning.”</p><p>“And she told <em>me</em> you’ve been talking shit,” Eddie snapped back, crossing his arms and thinking Richie must be on his way to healing if he had blood to spare for a slight blush to color his cheeks.</p><p>“She thinks we’re <em>cute</em>,” Richie bragged without missing a beat.</p><p>Bill broke off from his discussion with Mike to chime in, “B-because you asked!”</p><p>“<em>Technically</em> I asked if she thought Eddie was cute, <em>because he is</em>.” If Eddie wasn’t standing on the side of his bad arm, Eddie was sure he’d be reaching for Eddie’s cheek. He settled for nudging Eddie’s hip with his blanket covered knee and Eddie found himself wondering ‘<em>how long are this idiot’s fucking legs?!</em>’ He scowled but that only goaded Richie on. “See! Cute, cute, cute!”</p><p>Eddie met Mike’s amused smirk and rolled his eyes. <em>Some </em>things about Richie hadn’t changed. Thank god.</p><p>“Now, what kind of coffee does my adorable husband drink?” he wondered out loud and Eddie ignored the heat he felt pooling in his own cheeks. If Bill and Mike weren’t around he might admit he’d never <em>had </em>coffee until ten minutes ago but Richie was definitely gonna tear him a new one over it so he kept that to himself for now.</p><p>Richie took a long sip, moaning lasciviously enough that both Bill and Mike made faces, Mike breaking out into deep chuckles while Bill shook his head. When Richie was done, he dramatically smacked his lips and ‘<em>ahh</em>’ed like a fucking lunatic.</p><p>“Sweet. Just like you, Eds,” Richie winked, and Eddie rolled his eyes again before taking his cup back, surprised by the delayed reaction to the caffeine as his heart started to race.</p><p>It wasn’t until he was looking down at his cup that he realized Richie had put his lips there – right where Eddie was supposed to put his now if he wanted another sip. There was a wet mark on the paper lid, admittedly one that might have been from his own mouth but he couldn’t be sure anymore.</p><p>‘<em>Germs!</em>’ his mother’s voice screeched in his head. ‘<em>Orally transmitted diseases! That boy is </em>filthy<em>, Eddie, you stay away from him, you hear?!</em>’</p><p>‘<em>Fuck you</em>,’ Eddie told the voice in his head, putting his lips over where Richie had laid his and taking a long, bitter/sweet swallow. ‘<em>I want to be brave</em>.’</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Since Richie had spent his whole life secretly gay and terrified of discussing his <em>real </em>sex life, he’d gotten <em>really good </em>at reading subtext. Observing subtlety was important when he was squinting from the very back of the closet, trying to figure out if the guy at the end of the bar recognized Richie from his stand-up or if those looks were <em>Looks </em>and with the right combination of discreet facial expression, someone could be getting their dick sucked in a bathroom stall.</p><p>So when Richie decided Bill and Mike <em>wanted to fuck each other’s brains out</em>, he knew he was one-billion percent right about that.</p><p>It only took about 28.3 seconds for Richie to come to that conclusion. They really weren’t being subtle about it. Mike kept smiling in that impossibly handsome, lit-up-from-the-inside way and Bill was using just about any excuse he could find to lay his hand on Mike's arm or brush his fingers down his shoulders.</p><p>And they <em>hadn't stopped talking</em> since they walked in, barely even pausing to greet the bed-ridden Loser they were supposed to be babysitting since Eddie had left to take a shower and remember what sunlight felt like on his skin.</p><p>Richie had gotten in all of two jokes before Bill and Mike changed the subject to something they'd clearly started discussing on the car ride over - or maybe <em>three days ago</em> considering how hard it was to squeeze his way in despite his best efforts - leaving Richie to sit and observe their strange, nerdy mating ritual, feeling half-voyeur and half-nature documentarian.</p><p>
  <em>Here you see the smaller male draw attention to his mouth by touching his lips with his fingers, massaging his own erogenous zone to entice his intended mate. In response, the larger male shifts in his seat, perhaps to draw himself closer or maybe to disguise his raging boner.</em>
</p><p>Because they <em>totally</em> wanted to fuck. Take the D-train to Ass City. Do the horizontal roshambo. Fucking swordfight with their cocks or whatever. It was so <em>so</em> obvious. If Richie had full use of both his arms, he'd mash their faces together until they kissed.</p><p>That being said, it was anyone’s guess if they were ever going to do anything about it - Bill had mentioned some actress wife and Mike clearly wasn't the type to lay with a married man - but the sex vibes flying off the two of them were<em> overwhelming</em>. </p><p>Which was great, obviously. Richie hadn't picked up on any of that chemistry when they were kids and Bill only had eyes for Beverly but maybe that was proof some of them turned out well-adjusted enough to reevaluate their feelings now they were adults instead of pining after the same feral shrimp for thirty years <em>like some people</em>.</p><p>When Ben and Bev came to visit later, standing too close and shooting star-struck, lovesick looks at each other, Richie knew immediately they’d <em>already</em> been to Bonetown and Ben, at least, was probably planning how he was going to propose.</p><p>Which was great or whatever. All of Richie's criminally beautiful friends wanted to make criminally beautiful babies together. Jesus knew if Eddie even seemed the <em>slightest</em> bit open to the idea, Richie would fucking tackle him to the ground and guzzle down his dick like he needed it to breathe. And then Richie would probably, like, weep into Eddie's shoulder and spend the rest of his life worshipping him or something. Totally normal stuff.</p><p>Except Eddie, adorable fucking Eddie sipping his caramel macchiato (<em>so</em> fucking cute) and trying not laugh at Richie's jokes, had a <em>wife</em>. </p><p><em>Bill has a wife</em>, his brain traitorously reminded him. <em>Bev had a husband, too</em>. But that was different. Eddie hadn’t mentioned his wife much -<em> thank fuck</em>, Richie’s heart definitely wouldn’t be able to handle it even if he was <em>dying </em>to know everything about her because he hated himself - but Eddie was loyal to a fault and <em>into women</em>, obviously, so Richie didn't stand a chance.</p><p>And having him here, leaning against Richie’s hospital bed and reading aloud one mean response to Richie’s coming-out tweets (only the ones funny enough for Richie to stomach, he fucking <em>knew </em>Eddie was looking out for him the adorable little bastard) for every three nice ones Beverly shared with the class - that was enough. <em>More </em>than enough in a lot of ways because four days ago, he didn’t have an Eddie to frown at him when he flinched in pain or very gently remove his glasses and wipe the smudges clean since doing that one handed was a fucking comedy skit waiting to happen.</p><p>And Richie wasn’t about to give up Eddie to save his fucking life. Or rather he almost <em>did </em>give up his life to make sure Eddie got to live his. No fucking regrets, 10/10 would do again.</p><p>Ben, precious baby angel Ben, had brought Richie a pre-paid phone since it wasn’t like Richie could walk into an AT&amp;T anytime soon and replace the one he’d sacrificed to kill the alien-beast and Richie practically groveled at his feet thinking of how much less bored he’d be now he could scroll through reddit and watch youtube videos while Mike and Bill eye-fucked each other instead of paying him any attention.</p><p>Bill, practical fucking Bill, asked if he needed privacy to make a few calls and Richie snorted in a way that made almost all of the Losers frown (except for Eddie, who was already frowning, that gorgeous fucking hobgoblin). The only person who might be mourning Richie’s absence (besides the people who foolishly paid to see the shows he totally accidentally missed – whoops sorry) was his manager whose phone number he <em>did not know</em>.</p><p>Luckily (or very unluckily), Steve had his own professional twitter account – one Steve had used to try to get in touch with him after Richie posted the infamous ‘i ❤╰⋃╯’ tweet - sending a variety of inventive strings of swears that morphed into threats that eventually transitioned to ‘<em>seriously Rich where the fuck are you do i need to start calling rehab centers?</em>’</p><p>So with a begrudging sigh, Richie slid into his one-sided DMs with a picture he made Eddie take. Slinged-up and trailing wires and three-days-post-sewer-trek-filthy with the caption ‘<em>i lived bitch</em>.’ It maybe wasn’t Richie’s most original joke or best looking picture but it got the message across. Actually, upon further consideration, it was downright <em>depressing</em> considering Richie’s dream boy was standing at his elbow curiously watching what Richie was typing and Richie, according to the picture on his phone, looked like <em>absolute shit</em> and probably smelled like it too.</p><p>But whatever. Eddie was alive. And he’d never be interested in Richie so what did it matter.</p><p>(HAHAHAHAHA <em>It mattered a lot</em>.)</p><p>Richie followed his profile-worthy picture with the number to his burner phone and within seconds, it was ringing.</p><p>The Losers collectively, <em>politely</em>, filed out of the room to give Richie privacy, all except for Eddie who sat down in the seat Bill had vacated, crossing his arms and scowling.</p><p>Richie held the phone up with his left hand (which was so fucking awkward) and answered, “Y-ellow?” raising his eyebrows at Eddie who mouthed back, ‘<em>what?</em>’ like he was fucking ten.</p><p>“What the <em>fuck </em>is wrong with you, Rich?” the dulcet tones of Steve, his trusty manager, practically shouted into Richie’s ear. He flinched and pulled the phone a few inches away from his face, blinking in shock. “You fucking <em>bomb </em>your show, disappear off the fucking planet, <em>COME OUT ON TWITTER</em>, and now you’re fucking sending me pictures of you - <em>where</em>? A fucking <em>hospital</em>? <em>What the fuck</em>?!”</p><p>“Awww, were you worried about me?” Richie couldn’t help but joke, very aware that Eddie was probably hearing every fucking word Steve was bellowing and not sure how he felt about that. It <em>definitely </em>made him regret not snooping more in Eddie’s phone since apparently they were back to their childhood ground rules of willfully crossing boundaries – something that maybe should piss him off more than it did but that came with a whole bunch of upsides Richie fully intended to use to his advantage. He struggled to turn the volume down with his non-dominant hand but Eddie only scooted his chair closer and – <em>god help him</em> – Richie couldn’t help but think that was cute too.</p><p>“Are you fucking <em>high</em>?!” Steve shrieked, nearly shrill and Eddie definitely did that thing with his eyebrows in response, that little ‘<em>I fucking knew it</em>’ thing. “You know we have clauses in your contract about –”</p><p>“I’m not fucking <em>high</em>, Steve,” Richie snapped back, eyes skittering away from Eddie. He probably didn’t really want Eddie to hear about <em>that </em>stuff but he also was completely unwilling to kick the nosy little twerp out of the room. Would it be weird if he asked him to stick his fingers in his ears and hum? “Or well maybe I am. A little bit. But it’s doctor prescribed cause a building fell on me.”</p><p>That was met with the appropriate beat of silence. “A building – <em>so help me GOD</em>, Richie, if it was a crackhouse –”</p><p>Okay,<em> now</em> Richie was laughing. And maybe starting to understand why he kept bumping up fast-talking, short-but-assertive, quicksilver-tongued Steve’s salary to keep him around. The similarities between him and Eddie were… honestly really <em>very </em>embarrassing.</p><p>“It wasn’t a <em>crackhouse</em>, Steve. Or – I don’t know, it might have been once.” Eddie nodded, his eyebrows raised like he knew it for a fact and Richie laughed even harder, his back starting to twinge. “Okay it <em>probably </em>was a crackhouse when I was a kid. But now it’s just some old, shitty building in my hometown. Or it <em>was </em>before -”</p><p>“What the fuck were you doing in a house to make it <em>collapse</em>?”</p><p>“Why do you assume it’s <em>my </em>fault the thing collapsed?”</p><p>“Because I fucking know you, Richie, now spill!”</p><p>“There’s nothing to fucking spill.” Wow, what a flagrant lie. His eyes automatically met Eddie’s the way they had when Richie walked in late to class, fibbing his way out of detention, Good Boy Eddie Kaspbrak hurrying to back up his flagrant lies. “It was a shitty old house, Steve. I probably shouldn’t have been inside it.”</p><p>“Why <em>were </em>you inside it,” Steve demanded, getting exactly to the point Richie had been hoping he’d avoid.</p><p>“Uh – reliving childhood memories, obviously,” Richie supplied, hoping his sarcasm would diffuse the situation. It didn’t.</p><p>“Okay, so you’re having a midlife crisis.”</p><p>“What, <em>noooooooo</em>!” Richie said, dragging the ‘<em>no</em>’ out musically while he gave that some thought. Then he said, “Maybe.”</p><p>“Maybe? Yeah, fucking <em>maybe </em>Richie. You <em>came out</em>. <em>On Twitter</em>.”</p><p>“I feel like you mentioned that already,” Richie reminded him, voice all high and weird. Eddie was still watching him and fuck – he literally <em>never</em> wanted Eddie to stop looking at him but also he felt so fucking <em>seen</em>. <em>Uncomfortably</em> seen. Richie squirmed.</p><p>“If you wanted to – <em>Richie</em>,” Steve restarted, doing that thing that meant he was about to get super serious – meaning he was going to make <em>Richie </em>be super serious – which Richie fucking <em>hated</em>. “If you wanted to come out, there were better ways to go about it. We coulda made it a whole thing, worked it to our advantage.”</p><p>That was exactly what Steve had said in the mid-aughts when he’d found Richie with his ankles up to his fucking shoulders, a devastatingly ripped mirror-verse version of Eddie (short, dark haired, scowl-y – Richie was realizing he had a <em>type</em>, even without memories of Eddie to guide his dick like a divining rod) balls deep in his ass. It was the first time Richie had ever made it to home base with a man and he only managed it because he was out of his mind on a verified smorgasbord of drugs and booze, messed up enough to claim plausible deniability even if he was getting reamed in an unlocked room at a celebrity party and he was pretty sure he saw one of the Olson twins wander through the room to use the ensuite bathroom.</p><p>Steve had looked that plausible deniability in the eyes and said, <em>yeah fucking right</em>.</p><p>But Richie had taken Steve’s bizarre acceptance of his sexuality and Steve’s reasonable, healthy offer to let Richie be himself in public and blown it all off, slutting it up at all the worst kinds of parties where <em>everyone </em>did the kind of shit that might otherwise get them in a lot of trouble so an invitation came with an implied vow of silence.</p><p>But coming out back then had seemed <em>impossible</em>, for more reasons that the clown-magic-memory-wipe though maybe he’d have had the guts to do it if he remembered Eddie. Or maybe he’d have come out the moment he left Derry if he hadn’t lost the part of him that knew how tough he could be. Fuck – that goddamn clown really messed with everything and Richie’s brain was so <em>sick </em>of having to try to untangle all the bullshit.</p><p>“Ugggghhhhh,” Richie eloquently summarized his thoughts.</p><p>“At least you should have run it by me so your tweet could have been a little more fucking <em>coherent</em>.”</p><p>“What, no, it was super coherent!” Richie argued while Eddie shot him a ‘<em>told you so</em>’ look. Richie tried not to smile.</p><p>“I’ve been doing damage control, hoping to fucking <em>god </em>you weren’t dead or fucking hacked, trying to make sure you’d still have a job when you crawled out of whatever ditch you fell into. What number is this anyways?”</p><p>“Burner. Decrepit house ate my phone.”</p><p>“Of fucking course. But now that you’re <em>not </em>dead, we’re gonna need to get you in front of some cameras and do a press release and line up some interviews…” and Richie could feel himself checking out, picturing the questions and the disdain and the <em>judgement</em> – and Richie would deserve it. He lived his whole life as a fucking fraud and now people knew. <em>Everyone </em>knew. Richie Tozier, cock-sucking coward extraordinaire.</p><p>Quick question, did hospitals have beverage carts?</p><p>“Richie,” Eddie’s voice, loud like he’d said his name a few times, broke Richie out of his reverie. Eddie seemed so much softer than he usually did, his face filled with concern and this horrible, beautiful sort of understanding, and Richie was so <em>so </em>glad he hadn’t kicked Eddie out because he needed that look. He’d do <em>anything </em>for that look. God, he wanted to kiss that look right off Eddie’s perfect scowl-y face. “Richie,” Eddie said again, gentler this time, his hand reaching out to touch Richie’s arm. “You don’t have to –”</p><p>“Who the fuck is that?” Steve broke the moment, Richie and Eddie blinking at each other in surprise.</p><p>“Who’s who?” Richie trilled, weirdly high again.</p><p>“Whose voice was that? I heard a voice.”</p><p>“Oh, that’s just Eddie,” Richie said, aiming for nonchalant and missing by a mile when his voice cracked over the E in Eddie’s name.</p><p>“Richie,” Steve said flatly and <em>fuck</em> why did Richie pay this man so much to know him so well? “Who the <em>fuck </em>is Eddie.”</p><p>Richie blinked at Eddie in desperate, gay Morse code. “My friend.”</p><p>There was a protracted, ominous silence on the other end of the phone. “Richie. What aren’t you telling me?”</p><p>“Oh man, so fucking much,” Richie started immediately, already on the verge of rambling. “But honestly you wouldn’t believe any of it so –”</p><p>“Try me,” Steve snapped.</p><p>“Uh – okay – a space clown tried to eat me and my friends –” Eddie choked on his swallow and Richie smirked.</p><p>“You know what, <em>fuck you</em> Richie.” Eddie stifled a laugh behind his hand. “I’m trying to keep your career afloat and you are doing <em>fuck all</em> to help.”</p><p>“I know, I know. To be fair, I’m, like, super traumatized so…”</p><p>It was Steve’s turn to sigh. “How bad are your injuries?”</p><p>“Pretty bad? I mean I guess I almost died.” Steve sighed again which made a lot of sense. Richie had <em>almost </em>died a lot. He had kind of made an art of it, though usually there was a lot less blood involved and a lot more drugs and vomit. “My arm got, like, ripped out of my socket or something and I’ve got this gnarly fucking open wound on my back – Oh! Do you want pictures? I can send you some.”</p><p>Richie had made Bill take pictures for him while he was getting his bandage changed figuring it might be a good idea to have a visual to go with all the sensory input. He’d had to talk Sarah into letting him see it, promising he’d be able to handle it. Richie had taken one glance at the yellowish-brown, angry looking zipper of stitches winding up his back and thrown up all over his lap, very nearly passing out while rambling apologies to Sarah.</p><p>But… now he knew.</p><p>“No I do not want <em>pictures</em>,” Steve said emphatically, just like Richie knew he would. “But I <em>will </em>take a copy of the hospital paperwork. Did they do a drug test upon arrival?”</p><p>“<em>Steve</em>.”</p><p>“<em>Richie</em>.”</p><p>Richie’s sigh turned into a growl. “<em>Thank you </em>for doing the job I pay you to fucking do but I’ve gotta take some time off, man. I’m sliced open, okay? Nearly fucking eviscerated.”</p><p>“So you’re saying you want to cancel some dates,” Steve translated obtusely and Richie’s heart clenched up.</p><p>Canceling dates was <em>bad</em>. Even when he was at absolute rock bottom, Richie had never cancelled a show. He knew how fucking lucky he was to be in the position he was in, knew he needed people to come to his shows if he wanted to keep doing the only thing that ever felt <em>right</em>, the only thing that gave him the validation he so desperately needed, even if he was using someone else’s jokes to get the laughs.</p><p>But now all that felt so fucking <em>wrong</em>. It was one thing to recite the same sexist girlfriend jokes night after night while he knew he’d rather suck a mystery-dick than take the perfect woman out on a date. It was another thing entirely to know <em>exactly </em>which dick he wanted to be sucking, which man he wanted to be dating, which person he wanted to <em>spend his fucking life with</em>, and have to stand on a stage and pretend that person wasn’t the <em>only thing that mattered anymore</em>.</p><p>Richie was sick of pretending.</p><p>And he was <em>so </em>glad Eddie was in the room, practically <em>vibrating </em>with belief that Richie was the kind of person who made the right decision when it looked him in the face because if Eddie weren’t there, Richie probably wouldn’t.</p><p>“Cancel them all,” Richie said, a little weakly but with intention.</p><p>“<em>Richie</em>,” Steve breathed, clearly shocked.</p><p>“I’m outta commission for a <em>while</em> man,” Richie went on. “And what, did you think I’d still be able to get up on stage and joke about masturbating to girls on Facebook after I just came out?”</p><p>Steve scoffed in a very business-like way. “I’ve already got Tony working on something –”</p><p>“Fire Tony,” Richie interrupted.</p><p>“<em>What</em>?”</p><p>“<em>Fire Tony</em>,” Richie repeated, belatedly sending an empty, psychic apology to his ghost-writer. He’d done a lot for Richie over the years even if his humor kinda sucked but it wasn’t his fault Richie was way too willing to use him as a crutch. Still the guy was nice enough and he had a family… “But, like, fire him <em>nicely</em>. Send him an iTunes gift card or a fucking fruit basket or something.”</p><p>“<em>Why</em>?” Steve demanded.</p><p>“Uh… for his service?”</p><p>“I meant <em>why are you firing him, Richie</em>?!” Steve clarified.</p><p>“I don’t want to tell someone else’s jokes anymore.”</p><p>Steve heaved another huge sigh. “Richie, it’s been a <em>decade</em> –”</p><p>“Yeah I know,” Richie bit back quick, defensive. Thinking about the truth of that statement made him realize <em>exactly </em>how pathetic he was but there was no turning back time. “<em>I know</em>,” he repeated, much more morosely, but Eddie was looking at him with something burning in his eyes when he nodded twice, very seriously, like he approved. And shit, the things Richie had done for Eddie’s approval could fill a very dysfunctional library. “But I can’t anymore, dude. I – we can talk about it a little more once I’m back in LA –”</p><p>Eddie lifted one perfect, thick eyebrow.</p><p>“And when will <em>that </em>be?”</p><p>“No idea,” Richie answered honestly. “When I stop leaking or whatever. I’ll keep you posted.”</p><p>On the other end of the line, Richie could hear the deep, even breathing of a man very purposely trying to meditate himself calm. Richie braced himself for the inevitable reaming out. “Richie,” Steve started, and he didn’t <em>sound </em>angry but that could mean anything. “So long as you weren’t <em>high </em>when you did it, I want you to know – I’m really proud of you.”</p><p>Richie gasped – fucking <em>mortifying</em> - his eyes instantly filling with tears while Eddie leaned back comfortably in his chair and smirked. “I’m <em>pissed as fuck</em> about it too,” Steve continued, “but… yeah.” They both let that sit there for a moment and Richie briefly debated giving Steve another raise. “So you <em>better </em>not have been high. Feel better.”</p><p>And then Steve hung up, which was good, because Richie had started crying again.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Find me on twitter @BadNotso</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter Five</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: alcohol consumption, more of Myra controlling, gaslighting, and isolating Eddie, panic attacks, having important conversations on hospital prescribed drugs, homophobic langauge</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Eddie spent most of the fourth day of Richie’s recovery at the hospital, marveling at how much more energetic (and therefore stir-crazy) Richie became as the nurses weaned him to a lower dose of pain medication and his appetite returned. His catheter was also taken out and he was approved for supervised movement around his room but Richie was more excited he got to piss in a toilet again and made sure everyone knew it.</p><p>Richie finally got cleared to take a shower too – Sarah stopped in before the big event to unstrap the sling around Richie’s arm and peel off his bandage, reminding him <em>again</em> that he should sit down on the bench in the stall in case he got dizzy, a suggestion Richie groaned at with a defeated, “You’re killing me, Sarah, I’m still a young man.”</p><p>When Richie slowly scooted to the edge of his bed, Eddie was at his side to ease him up gently with a grip on his good elbow. Richie’s legs were just fine but he had to hold himself carefully to avoid agitating his back and technically he was still on enough pain meds that it wasn’t <em>weird </em>for Eddie to compulsively keep his hands around Richie’s arm during the short walk to the private bathroom. He was just being cautious.</p><p>“You might want to help him in there, Eddie,” Sarah said, very professionally, and both Richie and Eddie paused mid-step to gape at her. “He’s still gotta be careful with his shoulder.”</p><p>Eddie bit down on the childish ‘<em>Excuse me?!</em>’ he wanted to shriek before he remembered he was supposed to be Richie’s husband and therefore, presumably, had seen every ridiculous naked inch of Richie’s giant body. For example, during sex. Which is something they would do, obviously, if they were married. Somehow Eddie hadn’t realized the implication there (which maybe said a lot more about his marriage than he really wanted to think about at the moment).</p><p>Eddie very carefully schooled whatever expression was on his face, grateful Richie was taking up all Sarah’s attention by looking like the cat that caught the fucking canary.</p><p>“<em>Oohhhhhh</em>,” Richie cooed, “What a <em>nice suggestion</em>, Sarah.”</p><p>“<em>No strenuous activity</em>, Richie,” she reminded him sternly, pointing a very authoritative finger practically in his face. Eddie was glad she knew enough of Richie’s bullshit to scold him properly. “I’m serious.”</p><p>“You’re <em>killing </em>me, Sarah,” Richie whined again.</p><p>“<em>Behave</em>,” she emphasized firmly. “Eddie,” she turned to him and Eddie <em>tried </em>not to blush but since when was that a thing he could control? “<em>Make </em>him behave. I’ll be back in a bit to bandage him back up.” Then she let herself out of the room and closed the door behind her.</p><p>Richie, bracing his good arm on the doorway to the bathroom, caught sight of Eddie’s face and started laughing.</p><p>“Oh, Eddie, <em>Eds</em>, fuck,” Richie gasped, enjoying himself entirely too much. “What do you say, babe, want to come in and give me a <em>hand</em>.” Richie’s eyebrows bounced suggestively. “It’s nurse-mandated, that’s practically the law.”</p><p>“Richie, I will <em>murder </em>you if you say one more thing -”</p><p>“Come on, <em>rub me down</em>, Eds,” Richie went on, dropping his voice to a husky growl and Eddie studiously ignored the way his stomach threatened to climb up his throat.</p><p>“<em>Get in there</em>,” Eddie insisted, shoving Richie through the doorway maybe a little harder than he should have considering Richie was still at least 7% open wound but Eddie heard him chuckling through the door slammed in his face so he was probably okay.</p><p>“I thought for sure shower sex would be your <em>thing</em>,” Richie called from inside the bathroom, grunting a little in the middle of his sentence and Eddie wondered, belatedly, if Richie would be able to untie his hospital gown without fucking up his shoulder or his back.</p><p>“I don’t have a <em>thing</em>,” Eddie snapped back, straining to hear what was going on in the bathroom. “Is being disgusting <em>your </em>thing?”</p><p>“Oh, totally,” Richie called back jovially. “The more fucked up the better.”</p><p>Eddie, <em>fairly </em>certain Richie was joking around, shook his head and leaned against the doorframe, Richie grunting softly another two times before the sound of running water turned on.</p><p>Eddie tapped his foot and crossed his arms, relaxing slightly when Richie started singing loud and faintly off key, words to a song Eddie didn’t recognize but that could be because Richie was doing a very poor rendition of it. Thankfully the terrible singing helped dull the, ‘<em>come on, rub me down, Eds</em>,’ echoing around in the back of Eddie’s brain.</p><p>It wasn’t <em>Eddie’s </em>fault he had a below-average exposure to dirty talk for a forty-year-old man. Myra had told him (well before they even hit the physical stage of their relationship) that she found talking and noise-making during sex unappealing and animalistic. Eddie, already horrifically well aware of how <em>unappealing </em>he was, did his best to keep quiet even though he’d always thought banter and moans were pretty hot when he watched porn. <em>Then</em>, after he and Myra started sleeping together (once a week when they were young, tapering off as they got older), she very pointedly told him she believed watching porn was equivalent to cheating on her so Eddie had respected her wishes and kept away, limiting himself to jerking himself off quickly and perfunctorily in the shower when the mood struck him.</p><p>Maybe that was why Richie’s growly voice suggesting, ‘<em>come on, rub me down, Eds</em>,’ kept playing on repeat in the back of Eddie’s head. Even as PG as the lewd joke was, it was still one of the filthiest things Eddie had heard in <em>a while</em>.</p><p>And Richie, as always, seemed so willing to talk about sex (though to be fair, all the talking he did as a kid was probably out his ass). Like the fact that <em>maybe </em>he was into some stuff that wasn’t just missionary style penetration. Eddie wondered what that stuff might be but he didn’t have the best frame of reference having been told most his life that sexual desire was dirty and wrong (thanks mom, thanks Myra), so much so even his porn searches were probably embarrassingly tame.</p><p>Inexplicably, Eddie was suddenly <em>sure </em>that Richie made a lot of noise during sex. Probably ran his mouth off too since he never shut up. Hell, maybe he even cried, though he was usually pretty quiet when he got weepy. And Eddie had a solid mental image of Richie crying now because of how often he wound up teary and, weirdly, the look kind of worked for him. Wet eyes made Richie a little more sweet and vulnerable, and that soft pleading ‘<em>help me, Eddie</em>’ look wasn’t too bad either.</p><p>Wait, what? God, what the fuck was Eddie thinking?</p><p>By the time Richie hit the chorus (“<em>Good enough, for you is, Good enough, for me is </em>–”) Eddie realized he was singing the song from <em>The Goonies</em> and called out, “Your Cyndi Lauper is fucking horrible, dude,” to which Richie laughed and then grunted in pain.</p><p>Eventually the water shut off and <em>forever </em>after that, Richie opened up the door with a fresh hospital gown draping awkwardly over the front of his body, his good arm reaching behind him to hold it closed.</p><p>“I couldn’t tie the –” he pointed with one long finger, assumedly at the string behind his neck, turning slightly to show what he meant. And there, on full display, was Richie’s massive wound. From his right shoulder blade down to the small of his back, a long, jagged cut ravaged his skin, the stitches almost grotesque in the way they pulled his slightly puckered skin together. In some places, the straight line branched off, little roadways of dark thread following the trails.</p><p>“Oh, fuck, I wasn’t thinking,” Richie said after Eddie was silent for too long, trying to lurch away but Eddie caught him by two fistfuls of his hospital gown and held him in place. “Sorry, Eds. Fucking gnarly, huh?”</p><p>Eddies hand hovered over Richie’s skin and, <em>irrationally</em>, Eddie thought about touching the horrible mark, the pink skin, the black threads – even though that was fucking disgusting and would probably hurt Richie besides. To beat away that temptation, he let the backs of his fingers trail over the nape of Richie’s neck as he quickly tied the gown’s strings into a bow and then, haltingly, reached for the ties at mid-back.</p><p>Swallowing a million things he never wanted to think about ever again, Eddie cleared his throat and said, “Not as gnarly as your pancake ass. It’s called a squat, dude.”</p><p>Richie guffawed at that. “Eddie my love, have you been checking out my ass?”</p><p>“I’ve seen your ass so much this week I could draw it with my eyes closed.” Eddie tried not to think too much about the way Richie’s bicep felt under his hand as he guided him back to the bed.</p><p>With the sewer smell finally gone and his hair puffy and charmingly curled, Richie looked more like the kid version of himself than ever before; gawky and mop-headed and all big magnified eyes and dark locks. Except, now that Eddie wasn’t distracted by the huge cut going up his back, he could appreciate again just how <em>shockingly </em>wide Richie had gotten. And tall. What the fuck. When did he get so huge? No version of young Richie had been <em>so </em>fucking broad. Eddie didn’t considered himself a small man but Richie was <em>massive</em>.</p><p>Sarah came in a little later to re-bandage up Richie’s back and strap his arm back into the sling, humoring Eddie with more patience than he was used to when he watched her work and asked questions about her techniques. The Losers filed in shortly after, Richie loudly lamenting they’d miss the grand reveal of his ass and scarfing down the breakfast sandwich they’d brought him from McDonald’s with gusto.</p><p>The Losers drifted away on separate missions as the afternoon rolled in; Bill still had to finish the script for the movie he was working on, Mike and Ben were doing something at the library that they were both indiscreetly shifty about, and Bev had a phone call with her divorce lawyer.</p><p>Bev getting a divorce simultaneously fascinated Eddie and horrified him. He had a million questions – <em>Why </em>was she getting a divorce? <em>How </em>did she know it was the right move? What made her <em>so sure</em> she’d be happier after her whole known life was torn to shreds?</p><p>Not that he doubted her decision making skills; Bev was a smart woman and what she was doing was no doubt right for her. His fascination was much more selfishly motivated and even though Eddie knew that, he refused to look at it head on. Not yet.</p><p>When it was just the two of them, Richie had Eddie unearth his laptop from the duffle bag stashed under his bed and put on some horrible shlcoky B-movie Eddie was half sure they’d watched when they were kids. Richie talked over the whole thing and eventually Eddie got into it too, cracking jokes at the characters expense, giving funny answers when someone asked a stupid question, and Eddie was strongly reminded of all the times he’d talked back to Richie’s stand-up wondering if it was the muscle memory of this game they used to play rearing its head.</p><p>Eventually Sarah came and gave them a stern talking to – they were laughing so loud other patients had complained - so Eddie climbed up to sit shoulder to shoulder with Richie so they could split Richie’s earbuds, whispering to each other and giggling like little kids.</p><p>The Losers drifted back together before visiting hours ended and it was Richie who said, “Okay everyone, get this guy out of here. He needs a good night’s sleep on something that isn’t made of plastic.”</p><p>“No way,” Eddie responded immediately, the thought of Richie waking up with that frantic look in his eyes to an empty room stressed Eddie out so bad it made him faintly nauseous. Richie was tight-lipped about the subject matter of his nightmares and Eddie knew the clown factored into them obviously (It showed up in Eddie’s dreams plenty, too) but he was also starting to suspect Richie was specifically looking for <em>him </em>every time he jolted out of a dream.</p><p>And Eddie still wasn’t totally sure why heart hurt just thinking about that.</p><p>“I’ll be fine, Eds. Go have some fun.”</p><p>“You could have the c-couch, Eddie. It’s <em>way </em>more comfortable than that cot,” Bill said. “It’s okay if I b-b-bunk with you, right Mike.”</p><p>Mike’s brow rose while he smiled a little shyly at the ceiling. “Sure,” he said easily, voice soft.</p><p>“Yeah, see, let Bill bunk with Mike, Eddie,” Richie insisted, looking way too excited about someone else’s sleeping arrangements and trying to wordlessly communicate <em>something </em>but Eddie had no idea what he was getting at.</p><p>“I know a place,” Mike continued, eyes slotting down to land on Eddie. “Best hoagies in town. We can order out and make a party of it.”</p><p>Bev visibly brightened. “Oh my god, yes, Eddie, come on. I’ll buy you wine. I’ll buy you <em>so </em>much wine.”</p><p>“All the wine,” Ben agreed, laughing.</p><p>The idea of leaving didn’t sit right but Richie insisted, “Go have a good time, Eds. You never really got to celebrate…”</p><p>Richie gestured sweepingly with his good arm and Eddie filled in “…the destruction of our childhood nemesis, the clown.”</p><p>Richie smiled, genuine and warm. “<em>Exactly</em>. I’ll be right here in the morning, bud. And hey, drink for the both of us, would you?”</p><p>So the Losers (minus Richie) <em>did </em>wind up ordering hoagies and staying up half the night drinking <em>a lot </em>of wine, gathered around Mike’s kitchen table in a strange, happier imitation of the night at the Jade of the Orient even if it didn’t feel complete without Richie making an ass of himself every other sentence. They laughed and they reminisced and they teared up over Stan. And Eddie thought a lot about Richie, alone in his hospital room, laying on his one good side under the cold florescent light that never shut off all the way so the nurses could come in and out to check on him unnoticed.</p><p>The couch <em>was </em>more comfortable than the hospital cot. Eddie found that out when he collapsed onto it face-first well after the time he normally went to bed, fully dressed in the clothes he’d worn all day, Bev bouncing down onto the air mattress pushed up next to it. The novelty of closing off the Bev sandwich wasn’t lost on him despite his wine-drunk haze, even as he raised his voice slightly to wish everyone in Mike’s very small apartment good night which they all echoed back, congenially.</p><p>Even though sleeping so near Bev and Ben was comforting to a deep rooted instinct inside of him that recognized the familiarity, it wasn’t quite the same without Richie crowding his space like he did at every sleepover when they were kids. Despite the wine, it took a long time for Eddie to drift off and he was slightly disconcerted how quickly he’d grown accustomed to watching the steady rise and fall of Richie’s back across the hospital room, matching the gentle huffs of his breathing like it was the world’s most bizarre mediation technique.</p><p>The only reason Eddie managed to pass out at all was because he dug Richie’s broken glasses out of his pocket, clutching them in the fist tucked under his pillow, and also because he did indeed drink a whole lot of wine which was much more alcohol than he’d consumed in a long time – maybe since high school (with the exception of the night at the Jade but he probably got a pass for stress drinking to avoid a nightmare-clown). Myra was always so passive aggressive when it came to alcohol, even socially or on holidays when Eddie for the life of him couldn’t imagine what was wrong with having a cocktail with his coworkers at a work event or a cup of eggnog to make putting up with her too-involved family just the slightest bit easier. It wasn’t even like he particularly liked drinking, just that it was one of many things on a long list of activities forbidden to him for reasons he could no longer understand.</p><p>Maybe that was why the slight hint of a hungover-headache felt rebellious and well-earned despite how much the sunlight slanting in through the window made his brain pulse behind his closed eyelids. It was <em>empowering </em>to know Eddie could be the kind of man who got a little too drunk with his friends and ate greasy sandwiches and passed out on a buddy’s couch without changing out of his clothes. He’d never been that kind of man, not even in college when most people got that out of their system, but he found that he liked himself a little more knowing the opportunity to find himself anew hadn’t been lost to him forever.</p><p>By the time he hurried back to the hospital (early, before visiting hours, technically, but the nurses let him have free run of the place so long as he was respectful) it was to find Richie already up, smiling huge and goofily. “Someone had a fun night,” he crooned, reaching out to Eddie’s face to pinch his cheek. Eddie allowed it because he was momentarily distracted by the missing heart monitor clip. That had to be a good sign. “On a scale of one to death, how hungover are you?”</p><p>“A mild three,” Eddie said quickly, making up an answer. He didn’t have enough experience with hangovers to know if Richie was exaggerating about the ‘death’ end of the spectrum but whatever he had really wasn’t much more than a headache.</p><p>Upon closer inspection, it was <em>Richie </em>who looked like death. His color had been coming back steadily as the days passed but his face was waxy pale again, circles under his eyes to rival Eddie’s, and he was drugged out and dopey in a way he hadn’t been since the second day of his stay.</p><p>“Slept like a baby, Eds,” he insisted when Eddie asked, Richie’s hand still lingering on Eddie’s cheek in a way that wasn’t <em>entirely </em>offensive, thumb stroking gently over Eddie’s cheekbone. “Don’t you worry your cute little head.”</p><p>But later Eddie cornered Sarah and she quietly told him that Richie had woken up screaming from a nightmare and practically tore himself out of the bed in a panic. They gave him an IV sedative to calm him down but he’d fought off falling back asleep by pacing around his room, joking it off anytime one of the nurses suggest he lay down and relax.</p><p>“What happened to you two,” Sarah asked when she was done telling her story, gentle and concerned.</p><p>“A house fell on us,” Eddie said automatically, the lie coming easily for how often he’d had to repeat it. But Sarah blinked at him and waited and eventually he admitted the thing he hadn’t said out loud since it happened. “He saved my life. The –” what had they decided it was? oh yeah, “- the beam that ripped up his back, it was coming for me. He rolled me out of the way but I think when he dreams…”</p><p>Eddie had heard it a few times in the moment before Richie startled himself awake. That desperate, tiny little, “<em>Eddie…</em>?” full of heartbreak and agony. Even after nearly dying himself, it was dreaming of <em>Eddie</em> meeting that fate instead that made Richie mad with panic – which would have been flattering in the weirdest way imaginable if it weren’t instead completely devastating.</p><p>“He really loves you,” Sarah said, maybe the <em>only </em>thing someone could say in response to that, and Eddie nodded because he knew it in his fucking bones. The Losers loved each other and Richie loved the most out of all of them.</p><p>When Eddie stomped back into Richie’s room, he harshly demanded, “Why didn’t you tell me, asshole?”</p><p>Drugged out on sedatives, Richie didn’t even bother playing dumb. “I don’t want to make it your problem that I’m all fucked up.”</p><p>“<em>Of course </em>it’s my problem, it’s <em>always </em>been my problem and you’ve <em>always </em>been fucked up.”</p><p>“Gee, thanks Eds.”</p><p>“You should have just told me, dipshit. I’ll stay.”</p><p>Richie’s too-honest face crumpled into a frown verging on tears. “I don’t want to be your mom, Eddie,” he admitted. “Or I don’t want to turn <em>you </em>into your mom. I don’t know exactly which it is but we run the risk of falling into that…whole…” he waved his good arm around dramatically. “…dynamic,” Richie finally settled on somewhat lamely.</p><p>“You think I’m turning into my mom?” Eddie snapped, drifting into the room with his arms crossed. He forced his voice to be more moderated when he asked, “You think I’m being overbearing?”</p><p>“<em>No</em>, Eds,” Richie answered fast and so vehemently Eddie couldn’t doubt it if he wanted to even though his heart was fucking <em>pounding</em>. “No, I’d have lost my mind without you, seriously. I just – I don’t want to make you worry or – or <em>manipulate </em>you into anything just cause I got hurt keeping you –” he abruptly stopped, cutting his own sentence off by closing his mouth with an audible click of teeth against teeth.</p><p>“Jesus, is this about you saving my life?” Eddie demanded, realizing that maybe he should sound a little bit more grateful about it but utterly incapable of toning his anger down. “Do you want me to fucking <em>thank </em>you, dickface? Is that what this is? Cause <em>I</em> saved <em>your</em> ass from the Deadlights <em>first</em>.”</p><p>Richie started laughing and Eddie might have punched him in the shoulder if that shoulder wasn’t so recently badly dislocated. “<em>I know that</em>, Eds, you feral fucking nut,” Richie answered, smiling way too much. It made it so much harder to be mad at him when he was smiling. “I <em>like </em>you taking care of me, okay? I like it <em>a lot</em>. I always have.”</p><p>A sigh of relief Eddie hadn’t known was trapped inside him came out in one huge exhale.</p><p>“But if you’re doing it cause you think you owe me or because you think I couldn’t handle myself…”</p><p>Eddie <em>almost </em>bit out, ‘<em>oh, you’d for sure die without me</em>,’ but the words on the tip of his tongue echoed back to him in Myra’s voice and he froze.</p><p>Richie had lived twenty-two years on his own so that obviously wasn’t true. Richie didn’t <em>need </em>Eddie, not in that horrible crippling way Myra insisted Eddie needed her; the way she’d <em>made </em>Eddie need her by pushing him down. Eddie just wanted to help.</p><p>“I <em>want </em>to take care of you,” Eddie started, carefully forming the words in his head before he said them out loud because this felt important and because Richie gave him the space and quiet to form the thoughts in his head instead of speaking over him – shocking considering how much Richie liked to talk. “I like taking care of you. Is that… bad?” His memories were still trickling in but Eddie remembered enough about his mother to know he <em>never </em>wanted to become her – never wanted to make Richie feel as small and useless and weak as she’d made Eddie feel. “Richie, I don’t want to be my mom.”</p><p>“You couldn’t be,” Richie said, so fucking sincerely, his eyes crusted with tears. “I’m this big fucking hole that needs filling, Eddie, and I don’t want to suck you in or make you resent me. I’m <em>extremely </em>not worth the effort.”</p><p>“Fuck you,” Eddie snapped instinctively. “You’re worth the effort if I say you’re worth the effort.”</p><p>Richie smiled, just a little bit, but Eddie sensed something else under there he wasn’t seeing. “Ugh, I can’t believe you’re making me have a heart-to-heart on fucking <em>valium</em>.”</p><p>“I can’t believe you called me <em>my mother</em>,” Eddie snapped back immediately and Richie made a grab for his hand.</p><p>“You aren’t, Eds. You don’t have her beautiful double-D tits, for one.”</p><p>“Shut up, you don’t even like tits,” Eddie grumbled, ignoring Richie’s obvious attempt to lighten the mood. Then he asked, “Are you seeing a therapist or something?”</p><p>“Oh yeah, for like, ever,” Richie answered easily and Eddie mulled that over. “Most of what she says just goes <em>whoosh</em>,” he swiped his hand above his hair, “right over my head but I’m really trying to pull out all the stops for you.”</p><p>Eddie wasn’t quite sure what to make of that so he squeezed Richie’s hand back and watched him settle in, the valium and the bad night of sleep easily knocking him out within minutes, their fingers still threaded together.</p><p>While Richie slept, Eddie touched base with his car insurance in regards to his busted up Escalade, dropping it off at the local shop the insurance company recommended to assess the massive dent crushing the front fender while Ben and Bev sat watch over the unconscious Richie. Eddie was back before Richie woke up and when he did, his bleary eyes immediately landed on Eddie before Richie heaved out a massive sigh and smiled.</p><p>Eddie, Richie, and Mike were three episodes deep into <em>Our Planet</em> when Eddie got a call back from the mechanic – much sooner than he’d been expecting. Apparently his car was totaled.</p><p>“<em>What</em>?!” Eddie whisper-screeched into the phone, aware Richie was frowning at him from across the room. “I drove it all the way from New York, no way it’s <em>totaled</em>.”</p><p>The mechanic whistled in disbelief. “Don’t know what to tell you, kid.” <em>Jesus</em>, when was the last time Eddie had been called ‘<em>kid</em>.’ His hackles immediately rose. “We could fix it but it’ll cost more than the car is worth.”</p><p>“Yes. Okay. Fine,” Eddie bit back, rolling his eyes, his jaw clenched tight.</p><p>He hung up and called his insurance company and they spoke to the mechanic and before hospital visiting hours were over, Eddie had signed over the title of his car with the promise of a to-be-determined settlement check in the future. He wasn’t expecting much – he’d rear-ended someone so it was pretty clearly him at fault – but except for the immediate rush of frustration upon hearing the news, Eddie was shocked to discover he wasn’t nearly as worried about losing his car in an accident or being stranded in Derry without a ride or his insurance rates spiking as he would have expected.</p><p>A week ago he’d be in a panic, swallowing down pills to curb the anxiety brewing in his gut. But somehow, with Bev happily carting him back and forth to the mechanic in Richie’s fuck-off rental (the one they were all taking turns driving because it was fucking <em>ridiculous</em>) and Bill sheepishly retelling the time he crashed his car into a tree in college stoned out of his mind, and Ben pointing out a flight would take less than a quarter of the time as driving did, Eddie found he didn’t need chemical help relaxing. Was this the benefit of having friends?</p><p>Not that the car was Eddie’s biggest problem. It was only the <em>easiest</em> problem to fix, the one with a clear cut solution.</p><p>No, the worst of Eddie’s worries all circled around Myra.</p><p>Five days. Eddie had gone <em>five days</em> without talking to her.</p><p>That was the longest they they’d gone without speaking since they formally became boyfriend/girlfriend when he was twenty-seven and she was thirty-six. Once they got married and moved in together, Eddie hardly ever went six hours without checking in with her in some way unless he was asleep in his separate bed in his separate bedroom (although he suspected she periodically looked in on him there, too).</p><p>Sometime while Eddie had been dealing with the car fiasco, Myra must have contacted Eddie’s office because after the Losers filtered out at the end of visiting hours, he opened up an email from work expecting something important to instead find a message from the office receptionist very politely asking him to speak to his wife so she’d stop calling and asking questions they couldn’t answer. Eddie sighed, quickly tapping out an impersonal, ‘<em>Sorry for the inconvenience</em>,’ and wondering if there was a way to tactfully suggest they might be better off blocking her number.</p><p>When he’d left New York, he’d put in for a week’s worth of personal days figuring he’d never need that many but erring on the side of caution (as always) because some protective instinct knew he was walking into something big and dangerous and bad. ‘Family emergency’ he’d cited vaguely as the reason, and since he had a stockpile of PTO from all the vacations and personal time he only ever used for doctor appointments, he knew his boss and coworkers would respect his privacy and his right to fuck off for a week with the assumption whatever he was doing was important.</p><p>Myra had also, apparently, handed his phone number out to a handful of her friends and relatives because he had a barrage of texts from unrecognizable numbers. ‘<em>Please contact Myra as soon as possible</em>,’ ‘<em>Why are you doing this to your wife who loves you so much</em>,’ ‘<em>You need to contact Myra, she’s very worried about you</em>,’ ‘<em>Are you cheating on Myra? Are you having an affair?</em>’</p><p>Eddie couldn’t even picture Myra’s friends’ faces though she spent a good amount of time with them during the day while he was at work. Myra didn’t like <em>him </em>having friends, always wheedled him out of staying after hours to get a few drinks with the guys in accounting who weren’t complete assholes by complaining Eddie never spent enough time with her. It was hard to argue against someone saying they wanted his company so Eddie humored her, going home immediately after work every day to fold himself into Myra’s soft embrace, eat her overcooked meals, and sit next to her on the couch while she decided what they’d watch.</p><p>Now, for the first time, Eddie asked himself if that was unfair. It wasn’t like he worked unreasonable hours. He was home a quarter after six every weekday so long as they weren’t in the middle of a crisis at work and he had weekends off. He saw her <em>plenty</em>. She was the <em>only</em> person he saw, really, except for his coworkers who he tolerated with mutual dislike.</p><p>And even though Myra doted on him and fussed over him and ushered him off to bed promptly at nine ‘o’clock every night to make sure he got his full eight hours of sleep, he wasn’t really sure he <em>enjoyed </em>her company – not now that he had the sliding scale of the Losers to compare her to.</p><p>Fuck, killing a demon hell-clown from space and practically moving into the hospital had, at times, been almost <em>fun</em> because he was doing it with the Losers. What the fuck was that about?</p><p>The day before, Eddie had sat next to Richie while he made what was likely one of the most harrowing phone calls of his life. He’d come out to his manager, chosen to pivot his <em>entire</em> career, and stood up for his own health under the strain of an abundance of social and financial pressure. And he’d done it cracking jokes the whole time like it wasn’t the craziest, bravest thing Eddie had ever seen anyone do outside of bullying an alien-monster to death (though honestly, the phone call might be braver, Eddie was still running the numbers on that).</p><p>Eddie wanted <em>so desperately</em> to be that brave. He wanted to be worthy of his fearless friends who were taking control of their lives in all the ways previously denied them. He wanted to do that too, to make his own decisions, to be his own person, to stand up strong and proud beside them.</p><p>And fuck it, he <em>could </em>be brave. He drank a cup of coffee. He slept on his friend’s couch. He stabbed a space-demon in the throat to save his best friend. He could call his wife and tell her he wasn’t ready to come home.</p><p>When Sarah came in to do the usual night routine, checking Richie’s vitals and re-bandaging his back, Eddie excused himself out into the hall, feeling out the shape of Richie’s broken glasses through his pocket, tapping on Myra’s name in the long list of missed calls. He brought the phone to his cheek and belatedly realized he had to use his other ear, the germ-ridden case too close to his still healing cheek for comfort.</p><p>It rang once before Myra picked up and Eddie flinched instinctively at the hysterical tone of her voice.</p><p>“<em>Eddie!</em> Oh, god, Eddie, I’ve been so<em> worried</em> about you! I’ve been calling everyone I could think of trying to find you but your office had no idea where you went and you wouldn’t pick up your phone and you disabled your phone tracker and I can’t <em>imagine </em>why you’d do this to me <em>Eddie-bear</em>.”</p><p>It was like Eddie had been slapped across the face.</p><p>Oh god.</p><p><em>Oh fuck</em>.</p><p><em>Eddie-bear</em>.</p><p>His <em>mother </em>called him that. His mother called him that and Myra <em>knew</em> that was his mother’s favorite nickname for him, that’s where she’d fucking got it from - some old birthday card Myra found in a box when they moved in together and she sorted through his things deciding what they’d keep (not much, apparently she already had everything they needed).</p><p>Myra was still talking but Eddie was frozen in horror, her stream of words rolling over him like water over stone.</p><p>He used to think Eddie-bear was cute. <em>Clever </em>even. And like it was linked to the part of his brain trained to be servile, just the sound of it made him docile and malleable, ‘<em>yes mommy</em>’ practically forming on his lips in automatic response.</p><p>Something that was trying very hard to be hatred stirred restlessly in Eddie’s stomach, his cheek pulling down so hard in a frown his wound throbbed.</p><p>“Listen Myra,” Eddie eventually inserted robotically when Myra paused between sentences to take a breath. “My…” Eddie glanced around, making sure none of the nurses were around to hear him say, “…my <em>friend</em> is hurt - nearly got himself killed,” <em>saving my fucking life</em> a voice intoned in his head with the same edge of horror that thought still stirred, “and he's -”</p><p>“What <em>friend</em>, Eddie?” Myra interrupted and admittedly she had a point but the disbelieving tone still stung.</p><p>“My childhood friend. Richie.” It felt profoundly wrong to speak Richie’s name in Myra’s presence – as if they were two different parts of him that would reject each other like oil and water – but the rebellious monster that lived inside him when he was younger and stronger wanted to scream it in her face. <em>Richie</em>! My <em>best </em>friend! He’s funny and he’s stupid and he’s <em>mine</em>.</p><p>“You don’t <em>have</em> any childhood friends, Eddie,” she said chidingly, like he was a little kid making up stories.</p><p>“Yes I do,” Eddie bit out, starting to get frustrated, another part of himself he generally didn’t embrace in Myra’s company. Absently, he watched Sarah laugh at something Richie said, loud and abrupt and surprised. “And he's a fucking -”</p><p>“You know I don't like when you curse at me!” Myra snapped, voice verging on hysterical again.</p><p>“I'm not cursing <em>at </em>you - <em>nevermind</em>.” Eddie grit his teeth, shoving his free hand in his pocket to wrap his fingers around the plastic frames of Richie’s cracked glasses before he continued obstinately, “He's <em>important </em>to me and he’ll need a lot of help -”</p><p>“<em>Eddie</em>…”</p><p>“So I’ll be gone another week at least.” But it wasn’t as if Richie would be magically better once he was discharged from the hospital. He’d still have the sling for another week or so and adjusting to doing everything with one arm would be a whole ordeal. “Maybe more,” Eddie said vacantly, thinking out loud. </p><p>As if he could feel Eddie watching him, Richie turned, a grin lighting up his face the same way it always did when he caught sight of Eddie, like he was perpetually surprised and thrilled to see him even if Eddie had <em>literally </em>just been in the same room minutes before.</p><p>Noticing Eddie was making a call, Richie mimed a complicated series of gestures with his one good arm which included holding his hand to his ear like a phone, lewdly rolling his hips, and exaggeratedly biting his bottom lip before turning it all off with a quizzical expression.</p><p>Seamlessly, Eddie translated the charade to ‘<em>are you having phone sex</em>?’ and Eddie wrangled his hand out of his pocket to flip Richie the finger, mouthing back ‘<em>fuck you</em>’. </p><p>Richie gracelessly leaned over, turning down the covers to reveal his bare ass out the back of his hospital gown, gesturing magnanimously in invitation before Sarah hurried over and started scolding him. </p><p>Eddie bit back his instinctual laugh trying to disguise the strangled sound as a cough but Richie smirked at him, clearly deeply accomplished.</p><p>“Eddie, was that a <em>cough</em>?” Myra asked, horrified. “You’re getting sick, aren’t you?! I <em>told </em>you you’d get sick.”</p><p>“No, Myra, I was just clearing my throat.”</p><p>“You need to come home. You’re <em>ill </em>Eddie-bear.”</p><p>“No, I’m not –”</p><p>“Eddie, don’t be <em>ridiculous</em>,” Myra said, and now he had a few memories back for comparison, it was <em>jarring</em> how exactly like his mother she sounded when she was being obstinate. “You’re sick! You can’t be out of town for another <em>week</em>, what about your medication?”</p><p>A familiar stab of panic tried to bury itself in his guts but he wrestled it away, so much easier to do now he remembered he’d done it all before.</p><p>“I can get the prescriptions transferred.” Not that Eddie was planning on doing that.</p><p>“What about your vitamins?”</p><p>“They sell vitamins everywhere, Myra.”</p><p>“Can’t someone else look after this… this <em>friend</em>?” she asked but it didn’t really sound like a question. And there was that Sonia Kaspbrak tone back again, the one that made the word ‘<em>friend</em>’ sound like something noxious and disgusting.</p><p>“No!” Eddie surprised himself with his vehemence, breathing out deeply to bring his voice back down to his normal register. “He’s a handful and the rest of our friends can’t take the time off work,” he lied, shocked when guilt didn’t start creeping in around the edges. Hadn’t Mike offered to drive Richie across the country once he was discharged? Hadn’t Ben suggested Richie stay in his probably-way-too-nice house in upstate New York? </p><p>But what, were they just gonna drop Richie off at his doorstep and let him figure out how to function with one arm on his own? <em>No, probably not</em>, some part of him knew. The Losers took care of each other. But only Eddie knew how <em>truly </em>pathetic Richie was going to be and thanks to his neglectful parents, the giant bastard had no idea when to ask for help. He’d probably re-fuck up his shoulder trying to masturbate and cry himself to sleep out of loneliness.</p><p>So no, it absolutely had to be Eddie. </p><p>“Eddie, I don’t think you should be taking the time off work, either,” Myra insisted and Eddie sighed.</p><p>“Why not? I have vacation hours.” God knew he and Myra never went on vacations (<em>too dirty, too stressful, not safe</em>), “And I can talk to them about working remotely.” </p><p>‘<em>Or I can quit</em>.’</p><p>Eddie blinked in surprise.</p><p>He’d never had that thought before even though he hated everything about his job except the actual work and those two guys in accounting who weren’t the worst people to get stuck in the break room with. But he <em>could </em>quit. Holy fuck. He could<em> quit</em>.</p><p>“Eddie, just tell me where you are!” Myra’s pleading cut through the half-constructed two weeks’ notice that had almost fully popped into his head like some part of his brain had been writing it for years. “I’ll buy you a ticket home so you can come back to me and settle down. You don’t sound like yourself.”</p><p>“I’m not - Myra, this is something I’m doing.” Richie chose that moment to look over his shoulder at Eddie again and something must have given away Eddie’s borderline-panic because Richie struck a lascivious pose and started pulling slowly at the string trying his hospital robe at the base of his neck, over-exaggerated and ridiculous in the world’s least sexy strip tease. Eddie had to hold in a snort. “Please don’t worry about me, I’m <em>fine</em>.”</p><p>Myra started talking over him, her voice getting high and firm while the words slipped into background noise, his mouth automatically forming vaguely consenting, apologizing noises.</p><p>Richie’s glasses were again <em>somehow</em> smudged to opacity, the absurd fucking bastard, his good shoulder slipping into view as he pulled the sleeve down his arm in a pseudo sultry pose. And yup, Richie's shoulders were <em>still broad</em>, even without the hospital gown<em>. </em>And apparently well defined - maybe exaggeratedly so above the strap of the sling. And then there was the huge bandage covering most his back. The one covering the wound Richie had gotten <em>saving Eddie’s life</em>. Richie winked exaggeratedly and pulled a kissy face, eyebrows waggling.</p><p>And in a blink Eddie was transported in a vivid flashback, gripping the payphone at school to his cheek and crafting lies about clubs after school while Bill and Richie made faces at him from across the hall, trying to make him laugh.</p><p>It was always Richie who got him to break.</p><p>He met Richie's eyes, the suggestive <em>hubba-hubba</em> bounce to his eyebrows slowing to a halt, and then they were just <em>looking</em> at each other. Someone's gaze had never been <em>bolstering</em> before but with Richie staring at him, eyes warm and fond and secretive, the wash of Myra's voice fell away, the stuporing effects of her well-crafted arguments drying up like wet clothes laid out in the summer sun.</p><p>Richie smiled genuinely, almost <em>sweetly</em> (how the fuck did he do that?), and Eddie swallowed down his own grin until Sarah came into view, tugging Richie’s gown back into place and admonishing him while Richie tilted his head back and laughed. </p><p>Yeah, no fucking way was Eddie gonna let that goon try to take care of himself. Not because he <em>couldn’t </em>but because Eddie didn’t want him to have to.</p><p>“My mind is made up about this, Myra,” Eddie's mouth said with very little input from his brain (<em>he </em>definitely<em> didn’t say ‘mommy’ </em>even though that instinct was still there somewhere, mortifyingly), “I've gotta go. I’ll talk to you later.”</p><p>“<em>Eddie-bear</em>!” he heard her screech before he put his finger down on the ‘end call’ button and her frantic voice cut off.</p><p>Eddie stared down at his phone in shock. </p><p>He’d hung up on her. He’d hung up on his <em>wife</em>.</p><p>He’d never done that before.</p><p>He’d <em>thought</em> about it sometimes, when she really worked herself up and he just kept feeling smaller and smaller, vanishing into himself, repeating, “<em>I’m sorry</em>,” and “<em>please</em>,” and “<em>I </em>do <em>need you, I know</em>,” anytime she stopped to catch her breath.</p><p>But he’d actually done it this time.</p><p>…And it felt <em>good</em>.</p><p>Eddie hurried back into Richie’s room passing Sarah as she left. On her way out the door she said, “Maybe <em>you</em> can get him to stop undressing himself.”</p><p>“Haven’t managed it yet,” Eddie answered quickly, a smile pulling at his lips.</p><p>“<em>Of course</em> you haven’t, Eddie my love. You’d weep if you never got to see my hairy ass again.”</p><p>Sarah huffed another laugh and continued on her way, leaving Eddie alone with Richie who was grinning like an idiot. Eddie’s phone started buzzing in his hand and he glanced at it tensely, unsurprised but distinctly annoyed to see Myra’s name on the screen. He declined the call.</p><p>“Good stuff?” Richie asked, the faintest hint of concern in his eyes.</p><p>Eddie’s phone buzzed again and Eddie scowled at the screen, very aware that Richie was still watching him while he declined the call and swiped open his phone. Before he could over-think it, he blocked Myra’s number, completely unprepared for the rush of relief that one small action filled him with from head to toe.</p><p>“Yeah, your sister called,” Eddie answered almost automatically and Richie’s face scrunched up in confusion. “She said I fucked her so good last night I ruined her for other men.”</p><p>Richie snorted, a hideous sound that went straight to Eddie’s guts.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>So, Richie had come out (to a space-clown, the internet, his friends, his manager, and to <em>Eddie</em>) and somehow the world hadn’t ended. Fucking <em>phew. </em></p><p>He hadn’t <em>really </em>thought it would, not after Pennywise. If the apocalypse didn’t kick into gear when a nightmare-monster sucked Richie into its throaty three-orb disco show, it probably wouldn’t end because a D-list celebrity admitted he totally liked taking it up the ass – but no matter how hard he tried to <em>logic </em>that fear away, it still lingered.</p><p>The night Eddie spent at Mike’s, it took exactly three minutes alone before Richie gave into his baser impulses, staying up till two in the morning obsessively scrolling through Twitter to see what, exactly, the world made of him being newly-but-also-always gay.</p><p>The ratio was somewhere in the 60/40 split where <em>most </em>people were exactly as unimpressed/angry/disgusted as Richie expected them to be and the minority were so genuinely supportive Richie’s heart monitor had to be unclipped from his finger because the night nurse kept coming in to check on him, assuming he was fucking dying. Considering the more volatile people were more likely to express their feelings on the matter, Richie figured overall, that wasn’t a bad ratio.</p><p>Not for the first time, Richie wished Stan was around – he was always the numbers guy and Bill said he’d turned out to be an accountant. He coulda run the actual figures on Richie’s coming out, doled out hard statistics Richie could pretend to ignore but secretly obsess over. Then Stan would call Richie an idiot and maybe put his hand on Richie’s shoulder and smile and really, was that so much to fucking ask? Huh space-clown? <em>Was that so much to fucking ask</em>? Goddamnit.</p><p>It reassured him slightly that the bad comments weren’t any worse than the things he’d spent a lifetime saying to himself in the mirror. The ‘<em>choke and die on a cock, fag</em>’, or ‘<em>the gays don’t want you @dicktozier</em>’, or ‘<em>all you ever talked about was pussy. overcompensating much?’</em>. It still sucked hearing <em>other </em>people say it but Derry had given him a lot of practice with slurs and insults. His account lost a bunch of followers too but that was to be expected – his target audience was a group of men he actively hated and he could do so publicly now with good reason so it was a rewarding kind of culling if anything.</p><p>What Richie <em>hadn’t </em>expected was the way the nice stuff almost made the bad stuff worth it. People saying things like, ‘<em>welcome to the world out of the closet</em>’, and ‘<em>i don’t know, i wouldn’t kick him out of bed</em>’ and ‘<em>I like him better gay</em>.’ Richie liked himself better gay too – or rather he was working really fuck hard to and who didn’t love a bit of exterior validation - plus it was good to know someone with really low standards thought he was fuckable in an abstract, probably-some-day-maybe-Richie-might-get-laid kind of way.</p><p>Bev and Bill had shown their support for him through their professional twitter accounts, and the fact that they were willing to publicly admit that they knew and loved crass comedian Richie Tozier meant more to him than their actual words of encouragement.</p><p>The tweet that read ‘<em>fear has no age limit and @dicktozier is proof bravery doesn’t either</em>,’ made him sob uncontrollably into his pillow for a solid five minutes, very glad the nurse had taken away his heart monitor because he was pretty sure they’d try to sedate him if they saw how hard he was crying but he didn’t want to stop feeling what he was feeling, not even for a hit of the good shit they pulled out when he really freaked out. After that, he left Twitter alone, pathetically happy to know there were people who didn’t actively want to murder him for liking men.</p><p>Besides the coming out and the unfortunately frequent calls from Steve checking in and the hyperreal nightmares that left him gasping awake with the taste of Eddie’s blood on his teeth, Richie was getting better. Maybe in more ways than the obvious ones.</p><p>His back didn’t scream in protest anytime he moved anymore and, if he was very careful when he sat back and there were <em>a lot </em>of pillows, he could briefly lean against his upright hospital bed without agitating his stitches too bad. After his wound finished re-closing itself, Richie was never going to take back support for granted again. His tailbone ached from leaning forward and his left arm was perpetually numb from being slept on all night and he desperately missed lying flat on his back but all the small time agony was so worth saving Eddie from what Richie saw in his dreams. He’d spend the rest of his life uncomfortable, happily, so long as Eddie didn’t gurgle up blood and – <em>nope</em>. Nevermind.</p><p>His shoulder was doing whatever the fuck it was supposed to be doing too – Sarah and the stream of doctors who stopped by all shared approving, slightly surprised nods over a set of x-rays they took four days into his recovery. He’d be wearing the sling for the rest of the month, just to be sure, and everyone kept impressing on his the importance of avoiding strenuous activities.</p><p>Only Sarah, the fucking doll, smirked when he replied, “So what I’m hearing is ‘<em>no masturbating</em>’.”</p><p>The rest of doctors all looked at him blankly with faces that had never once known a smile or a laugh. Ugh, Derry. Richie couldn’t wait to get the fuck out.</p><p>Except, as his discharge day kept getting bumped up with his better-than-expected healing, Richie realized he very much wasn’t ready to leave. All his friends were here and they’d been robbed of nearly thirty years of awkward silences and hungover brunches and weird group vacations. But they were also all <em>adults </em>so they had lives to get back to - or more accurately, lives to discover anew - and just cause Richie had <em>dependency issues </em>didn’t mean he had to make it anyone else’s problem.</p><p>A large portion of his concerns were, in his opinion, very logically focused around the possibility of forgetting again. What if they all stepped onto different planes and <em>lost all their memories</em>? Lost each other? Richie couldn’t give up any of the Losers, not now he had them back, not now he knew what Eddie looked like all grown up, not when he had to hold on tight to all he had of Stan or else he’d fade away completely.</p><p>He reassured himself that things would be different now, sitting up after a nightmare and trying not to stare too longingly at where Eddie was curled up on the cot, mumbling periodically in his sleep. They had the group chat and even with all them never more than a few miles apart, it was almost constantly flooded with pictures and links and throw away thoughts. Mike, apparently, was a big fan of using emojis in place of words and Richie found that simultaneously adorable and a fucking riot.</p><p>The extra bonus of the group chat was it qualified as hard evidence they could carry around in their pocket, tangible evidence of the Losers’ existence. If Richie forgot everything, he’d still have this text thread hanging out at the top of his messages filled with funny people throwing around ‘<em>I love you</em>’s like confetti and surely that would warrant some investigation. Right?</p><p>And so long as they didn’t forget, being an adult meant traveling was an option in the way it hadn’t been when they were teenagers getting split up by their parents’ whims. Bill lived in Malibu, practically Richie’s fucking neighbor, and assuming the script he’d sent went over well, he’d be done filming and back in California by the end of the month. Bev had a work thing in Los Angeles in November and was planning to stay with Bill in his bougie mansion and Mike figured he’d make it to the West Coast by early December if his road trip didn’t take him anywhere unexpected (though he was adamantly leaving himself open for the unexpected – he deserved it after 30 years in the same fucking town). To round out the year, Ben was already planning a Losers Christmas Party at his probably disgustingly fancy mountain home in Nebraska that everyone had agreed to go to, even Eddie who was <em>real</em> tight-fucking-lipped about what shape his future was going to take.</p><p>Maybe that was why Richie internally flinched every time Sarah hummed approvingly at his back while she changed the bandages. What the fuck – <em>of course </em>that’s why he was fucking panicking about getting released. Pretty soon, Eddie would be gently hugging him goodbye (the hug was only a part of the fantasy if Richie was feeling <em>very </em>lucky) before Eddie boarded a plane back home to his wife.</p><p>The rational part of Richie suggested he start weening himself off Eddie now the way the nurses had gradually lowered his pain meds. Going cold turkey had never been Richie’s style but nor had self-control in any shape or form. And Eddie was his oldest, most ardent addiction.</p><p>Since the night Eddie spent at Mike’s, the night Richie made <em>a scene </em>or whatever, he’d stayed within Richie’s line of sight as often as he could, only ducking out when Richie was awake and entertained with at least one other Loser. It was pathetic and probably Richie should be mortified over how obviously needy he was being, but he was also so cripplingly grateful he wanted to rip his own heart out of his chest and hand it over to Eddie in payment.</p><p>Because every time he woke up from a Deadlights dreams, it was with the same stupid thoughts circling his head - was it all a dream? was Eddie actually dead? had they really <em>left him there</em> in the dark and the cold and the filth? <em>how </em>could they do that? <em>Richie would rather be dead down there too</em> – and it was only sitting up and finding Eddie curled on his side on the hospital cot a few feet away that settled that restless spiral of fear.</p><p>And even though Richie knew he was soon going to have to say goodbye to Eddie, at least until Christmas (or maybe <em>especially </em>because he knew he’d have to say goodbye to Eddie until Christmas) he couldn’t bear to spend any moment they could be together apart, too aware that every second was precious and valuable and probably the best fucking moments of his life.</p><p>It didn’t help that Richie was pretty sure something weird was going on with the little gremlin. Weirder than Eddie’s <em>usual </em>level of weird which was a pretty high fucking caliber to break. Richie had a vague idea it had to do with Eddie’s wife but he wasn’t sure what <em>exactly</em> the problem was because Eddie was clammed up tighter than a fucking vault.</p><p>Which was <em>also </em>weird. Young Eddie had said literally everything that siphoned through that crazy little brain of his and watching Older Eddie purse his lips around whatever he obviously wanted to say was making Richie insane.</p><p>He could just ask. That was <em>allowed</em>. ‘<em>How’s the missus, Eds</em>?’ That was a normal question to ask your friend, right? Richie could even do it in a cowboy Voice to make it seem less obviously dire. And yet somehow he still couldn’t bring himself to mumble the question out loud.</p><p>If Richie really wanted to give himself a good excuse for being such a fucking coward, he could blame it on the married charade they were doing for the hospital which was just – <em>ugh</em> – fucking chef’s kiss level perfection. Whenever a nurse walked in and casually asked after Eddie by saying ‘<em>your husband</em>,’ every fucking wet dream and sappy Hallmark-approved feeling Richie housed inside of him started throwing a bar mitzvah in his stomach, the really good kind with lasers and molly and an omelet chef.</p><p>Plus now he kind of liked the nurses and he didn’t want them knowing he’d been lying to them and he <em>really </em>didn’t want Eddie thrown out of the hospital for committing marital fraud or whatever so yeah. Better not to ask after Eddie’s mysterious wife so they could keep playing house.</p><p>Except not talking about it didn’t mean Richie wasn’t obsessively thinking about it and because Richie had exactly three hints as to what was going on and a picture was starting to form in his head that was really… <em>not good</em>.</p><p>He’d seen the tense looks Eddie shot at his phone the first couple days in the hospital. The anxious glares at his screen. The way Eddie sometimes would glance at his phone after it buzzed and <em>shrink</em>. That phone call he made in the hall where his eyes just fucking <em>glazed over</em> like he was disappearing and Richie pulled out all the stops to bring him back, ready to yank out his own fucking IV and bleed out all over the floor if it would give Eddie a good enough excuse to hang up.</p><p>That was an unfortunately familiar sight, though Richie hadn’t imagined he’d ever need to see it again after a desperate but bright-eyed eighteen-year-old Eddie packed up two suitcases and got on the bus to New York, still bristling with excitement over his acceptance at NYU.</p><p>In the last day, Eddie had been staring at his phone a lot less, his pocket only buzzing when Richie’s burner phone did too, a notification from the Loser group chat. Ben sending a picture of a stray cat he found on the street or Bill sharing a link to a recipe he planned to cook everyone for dinner at Mike’s place. Nice stuff. Stuff that made them both smile a little stupidly before they laughed at each other’s dumb faces.</p><p>And maybe Richie was just projecting super hard but Eddie was looking a little better every day too, a little less tight around the eyes, his spine held a little straighter. And confidence was a good look for him. A <em>really </em>good look for him. Especially with the still healing cheek scar after the stitches were removed. He looked like a sexy fucking hitman or something. Shit. Richie was going to have to fantasize about that once he wasn’t under frequent supervision.</p><p>When finally a doctor walked in and told Richie his back was looking good enough that he could be released the next day, the gathered Losers cheered, Ben doing this insanely endearing little fist punch into the air and Bev writhing in a happy shimmy. Eddie, of course, immediately started drilling the doctor about after care and follow-up appointments and a bunch of other boring stuff but Richie was too busy doing his best impression of a sane, happy man so he didn’t hear much of it.</p><p>And he <em>was </em>happy. He was glad he wasn’t in as much pain as he’d been in the day they fought It and he was glad he and his friends could finally get the fuck out of Derry and never come back and he was glad he’d soon be able to get some fresh fucking air.</p><p>But Richie hated goodbyes more than anything.</p><p>The room was a flurry of planning after that. Bev wanted to have a blow-out party but Eddie reminded her Richie wouldn’t be able to drink with his pain meds so she reluctantly agreed to postpone it until Christmas. Bill suggested the compromise of getting a nice meal together and made reservations for lunch at the one of the nicer restaurant in Bangor. Everyone but Mike had plane tickets to buy and, because apparently Richie wasn’t the <em>only </em>one with dependency issues (<em>thank god</em>), they all wanted to coordinate their flight times so no one was left too long alone at the airport.</p><p>While Richie searched up flight information to LA, he set about a million reminders in his calendar, every day for the next month and then weekly after that. ‘<em>Remember the Losers</em>,’ he wrote, copying their names and contact information into every note-taking app he had on his phone, texting it to himself, emailing it to himself, attaching one of the many pictures he’d insisted they take, all of them gathered around his hospital bed, the slightly manic, ‘<em>DON’T FORGET DON’T FORGET DON’T FUCKING FORGET</em>,’ as a caption.</p><p>Richie wasn’t taking <em>any </em>risks this time.</p><p>Then he bought a ticket and prayed to every god he’d never believed in and at least three he made up on the spot that he’d get to keep the people he loved.</p><p>When he glanced up, it was to find Eddie staring at him, those huge dark eyes boring right into Richie’s brain. He did his best to screw on a smile.</p><p>When all the travel plans were settled, everyone but Eddie left to pack up their own things and finish up with Mike’s stuff. Apparently most of Mike’s books and secret stolen Native American relics were being mailed to Bill’s bougie Malibu mansion for safekeeping (<em>suspicious</em>) while Mike was only packing the bare essentials for his epic cross country road trip.</p><p>With just Richie and Eddie in the room, it was so much harder to keep up an air of excitement but luckily Eddie started rambling practically the second he closed the door on Bill’s heels.</p><p>“You’re gonna have to let your wound breathe as often as you can but the doctor says it might be wise to wear a bandage at night – it’ll likely leak a little longer, fucking gross – and <em>definitely </em>wear a bandage on the plane – have you thought about how you’re going to sit? That’s a long flight, nearly nine hours <em>plus</em> a layover. Shit, make sure you have your pain meds in your carry-on. And you can’t drive with your arm like that. Plus you’re gonna have to make an appointment with whatever doctor you see regularly in LA as soon as you can so they can decide when to take out the stitches – probably in a couple of days – and they should keep an eye on your shoulder because eventually you’re going to need physical therapy and maybe some follow up surgery and you never know, maybe some nerves got pinched –”</p><p>“<em>Eds</em>,” Richie interrupted, impractically turned on by how fucking fast the man could talk. It was like being <em>bombarded</em> by words. It was fucking beautiful.</p><p>Eddie blinked and then grimaced. “Fuck, sorry. I… might be a little anxious.”</p><p>Richie laughed, impossibly endeared. “You think? Just tell me, Eddie my love,” (he had to get in as many of those as he could before they were on other sides of the country and Richie only got to think it obsessively in his head) “What can I do to make you feel better?”</p><p>Eddie very slightly recoiled in shock and Richie backtracked, wondering what idiot thing he’d said to make Eddie <em>flinch</em>. “No one’s ever asked me that before,” Eddie said, words falling over each other in a rush to get out of his mouth. Richie frowned. What a… worrying thing to hear. “Usually people tell <em>me </em>what to do.”</p><p>Richie tried, very hard, not to think about Sonia Kaspbrak and Bev’s piece-of-shit husband, and circles of abuse but wow, once it was there he couldn’t stop.</p><p>Carefully, Richie asked, “Does that make you less anxious? Being told what to do?” as gently and sincerely as he could manage. Let it be said, Richie Tozier <em>sometimes </em>knew how to read a room, or at least he could <em>really</em> fucking try if Eddie was in it.</p><p>“<em>No</em>,” Eddie bit out vehemently. “I fucking hate it.”</p><p>“Okay, then I won’t tell you what to do.”</p><p>Eddie licked his lips and very stiffly stomped over to sit in the chair closest to Richie, his ass perched on the edge of the seat.</p><p>“You should fly home first class,” Eddie started very haltingly, blinking and scowling at Richie’s sheet covered knee. “You’ll need the extra room to be comfortable.”</p><p>“Already done,” Richie promised him, smiling when Eddie caught his eyes, gesturing to his own stupid, gangly body with one sweep of his good arm. “What, you think this tall drink of water flies economy? Extra leg room is the absolute best way to waste my money, trust me.”</p><p>Eddie started nibbling on his bottom lip and Richie tried <em>hard </em>not stare. Or worse, start drooling. He ran the back of his wrist over his mouth just to be sure.</p><p>“And I’d feel better if you called your doctor and made a follow up appointment,” Eddie said slowly, huge eyes looking up his dark lashes in a look that should be <em>criminal </em>if only because Richie was sure he’d do <em>very </em>questionable things to appease him and his stupid-huge eyes.</p><p>“Okay. Right now?” Richie asked and Eddie made a face like he wanted to say yes but thought maybe he shouldn’t. Richie laughed and grabbed his phone. “I don’t have her number but I can look it up. Give me a minute.”</p><p>It wasn’t hard to find his doctor’s number by googling her name and Silver Lake where he was pretty sure her office was though it had been a while since his last check-up. Richie made an appointment for two days after his arrival in LA and, at Eddie’s quiet reminder, double checked that they’d gotten the information on his injuries that the hospital had sent them, chuckling when the receptionist on the phone said, “Wow, rough week, huh?” after taking a brief look at his files.</p><p>When he hung up, he added the appointment to his calendar so he wouldn’t forget, right underneath ‘<em>Remember the Losers</em>’ scheduled at 11am every day. “Anything else?”</p><p>“Isn’t this weird?” Eddie bit out <em>angrily</em>, but it was the kind of anger Richie knew wasn’t directed at him and mostly meant Eddie was worried but didn’t know how to express that so Richie shrugged.</p><p>“I don’t know, maybe? But I – uh – thrive under direction so…” he added lamely, not willing to expound upon how <em>much </em>he enjoyed being told what to do in the right circumstances or how much Eddie’s childhood bossiness had imprinted itself on him in a <em>very specific way</em> that linked back directly to his dick or how Richie would do literally anything Eddie asked and fucking love every second of it.</p><p>He <em>definitely </em>didn’t mention how he was totally gonna jerk it to this interaction at the first opportunity – something about Eddie forcefully looking out for him lighting up the pleasure centers in Richie’s brain like the fucking fourth of July. Richie hoped desperately he was so turned on because it had been a while since he <em>could </em>be thanks to all the pain meds no longer slowing down his system and that it wasn’t just because he was such an absolute slut for Eddie. Except who the fuck was he kidding?</p><p>“Are you sure,” Eddie asked, timid and trusting, so Richie tried to shelve all the perverted parts of himself while still leaving enough personality behind to keep talking.</p><p>“<em>Totally </em>sure, Eddie Spaghetti. Got any other requests? I do a pretty mean Nick Cage.” Richie started half-shouting, “OH NO! NOT THE BEES! NOT TH –”</p><p>“I want to go with you to LA.”</p><p>Richie’s mouth snapped closed so fast he nearly bit his tongue off.</p><p>Had he heard that right or was he now getting boner-induced auditory hallucinations? The second options seemed more likely because <em>whaaaaaa</em>???</p><p>“You want to <em>what now</em>?” Richie asked, voice going all high and weird. Man, wouldn’t it be great if his voice would <em>stop doing that</em>?!</p><p>Eddie’s jaw clenched and his adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed. Richie tried very hard not to swoon.</p><p>“I want to go with you to LA,” Eddie repeated firmly, nodding a little to himself in affirmation. “You’re going to have to figure out how to do shit with one arm and you’ll need someone to help with your bandages and – I mean I guess you could hire someone to help you with that but –”</p><p>“Can I buy you a plane ticket?!” Richie burst out, maybe a little too enthusiastically because it was Eddie’s turn to cut himself off abruptly, his mouth still hanging open. “Like right now, I can get you a seat? Fuck it, I’m doing it –” and before Eddie could change his mind, he’d fumbled his phone on and re-navigated to the flight he’d just bought a ticket for, half-frantic.</p><p>If Eddie came with him, he <em>couldn’t </em>forget him, right? Unless somewhere over Indiana they blinked and became strangers, Eddie asking himself why the fuck he was on a plane to LA, never thinking to ask the grungy idiot sitting next to him. God, should Richie handcuff their wrists together for the flight, just in case? Where could he get a pair of cuffs on such short notice? A sex shop? Did Derry even <em>have </em>a sex shop?</p><p>“I can buy my own ticket, dude,” Eddie grumbled, somewhat sheepishly, but peripherally Richie caught him looking deeply pleased, hand raising to cover a smile, and Richie tapped more frantically, somehow feeling like it wouldn’t be real until he had a ticket locked down.</p><p>“No no no no no, Eddie my man, if you’re coming out to keep me from re-breaking my fucking shoulder, this is my treat. Wait fuck –”</p><p>Against every instinct in his body that selfishly screamed <em>do it do it do it</em>, Richie paused before clicking the ‘book flight’ button.</p><p>“Are you <em>sure</em>, Eds? I –” wow, he <em>really</em> didn’t want to be saying this but he also totally knew he should. “I can take care of myself. I don’t want you to –”</p><p>“- do anything I don’t want to do,” Eddie recited over him, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I know, Rich. I want to do this.”</p><p>“<em>Oh thank fucking god</em>,” Richie breathed, pressing his finger down and sighing in ecstasy when an email popped up thirty seconds later confirming his purchase. “Then pack your bags, Eds, cause sunny California has a beach towel and a used needle with your name on it!”</p><p>And okay yeah, there were <em>so </em>many follow up questions Richie should be asking like <em>what about your job</em>? <em>what about your wife</em>? <em>what about your </em>life?!</p><p>But Eddie had made the insane decision to go home with Richie (<em>home</em> his stupid fucking heart sang, <em>take Eddie home, keep him there forever</em>) and even though a better friend might be trying to have some sort of reasonable discussion about the consequences of traveling to the other side of the country to play nurse for <em>Richie </em>of all people or maybe at least ask about how long Eddie was planning on staying, but Richie would literally rather stab himself in the eye than talk Eddie out of spending more time with him.</p><p>It didn’t help that Eddie looked pleased as fucking punch, arms crossed and leaned back in the chair with a smirk curling up the lips Richie so desperately wanted to kiss. Richie had no idea what his own face looked like - probably fucking stupid giddy, he couldn’t stop smiling, <em>ugh, get it together Tozier</em> – but it wasn’t <em>that </em>weird to be excited. <em>Hopefully</em>.</p><p>Richie needed to say something - something supportive, something affirming, something that would make Eddie keep smiling at him like that, all soft and open and scowly-pleased. Unfortunately, when he opened his mouth, what came out was, “Oh my god I can’t wait to watch you lose your mind in traffic.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Let's get everyone the fuck out of Derry!</p><p>Thanks for reading! Find me on twitter @BadNotso</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter Six</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: hiding a body, alcohol consumption, panic attacks</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It wasn’t <em>totally</em> crazy to fly across the country on a fucking whim, right? Adults did that kind of thing, didn’t they? Eddie wasn’t making a huge mistake, <em>was he</em>?</p><p><em>No</em>, something inside his chest answered immediately, firmly, unquestionably. Because it wasn’t a whim dragging Eddie across the country – it was <em>Richie</em>. And <em>Richie </em>wasn’t dragging him anywhere – he didn’t think there was a person alive (besides the other Losers, of course) who was so concerned with Eddie’s feelings and opinions.</p><p>Eddie had made the decision, entirely on his own (aided maybe a little bit by the outrageous, borderline flattering excitement that burst out of Richie in an explosion when Eddie suggested the idea). Because yeah. Eddie was the kind of man who could make his <em>own</em> decisions. He didn’t need to look up plane crash statistics or California venomous insect populations or let himself be gently talked out of doing anything exciting enough to make his heart race by his wife. He could just <em>go</em>.</p><p>Richie’s contagious smiles helped keep some of the anxiety at bay – every time Richie looked in his direction he grinned like a fucking lunatic and if Eddie weren’t maybe a little too aware of what medication they’d been pumping into him and in what doses, he might have assumed he was high. But it was insanely reassuring to know that Richie, at least, didn’t think he was doing anything crazy (even if Richie was in no way a good marker for sanity).</p><p>Actually, <em>none</em> of the Losers thought Eddie’s unexpected cross-country journey was weird, which Eddie took as a good sign. When he mentioned it super casually in passing at the dinner he ate in Mike’s apartment (it was the last dinner Mike would ever have to eat in Derry so Bev made it a whole thing with <em>even more</em> wine than last time which Eddie drank rationally because he still intended to spend the night at the hospital), they all cheered.</p><p>“Richie must be <em>thrilled</em>,” Bev gushed, leaning heavily on Ben’s shoulder and pulling out her phone.</p><p>“He’s gonna m-make you fucking crazy. You know that, ruh-r-right Eddie?” Bill laughed, topping off his own wine glass.</p><p>“No he won’t,” Mike said calmly, diffusing some of the worry that had gripped Eddie’s heart. Then Mike looked thoughtfully up at the ceiling and amended, “And if he does, just… go for a walk or something. Take a break and calm down. You bickered a lot as kids but you never really <em>fought</em>.”</p><p>“I think you’ll have fun,” Ben chimed in, laying his hand comfortably on Eddie’s shoulder, peaceful as could fucking be. “I’m glad you’re going out there to look after him. I think Richie was really lonely.”</p><p>Bev stroked a piece of Ben’s hair gently behind his ear (Eddie watching the contact, marveling at how Bev could just <em>do </em>that – was that normal?) and said, “We were <em>all </em>lonely without each other, weren’t we?”</p><p>Bill emphatically agreed, “<em>Here, here</em>,” knocking his glass against Eddie’s empty one.</p><p>That was probably true, Eddie thought, settling himself onto the hospital cot while Richie crooned some lullaby in a truly horrible Scottish brogue. Eddie had been lonely ever since he left Derry only he hadn’t noticed because he couldn’t remember who he’d been missing.</p><p>The next morning, Richie struggled for twelve minutes in the bathroom before he came out wearing pants for the first time in almost a week and Eddie tried not to spend too long thinking about how long his legs were or why he couldn’t stop looking at them. He’d seen them all week for fuck’s sake, his shins almost as skinny as they’d been when he was a kid but significantly hairier, his bare feet still huge and weirdly expressive, toes curling in excitement or kicking around in joy when he laughed particularly hard.</p><p>Maybe Eddie was just relieved to see him looking less patient-y. Or maybe he was overwhelmingly grateful that finally Richie’s ass was covered and he didn’t have to keep coming out of a thought to find his eyes had glued themselves to Richie’s bare butt. Whatever it was, Eddie was very fond of Richie’s dark jeans.</p><p>Eddie helped Richie unstrap the sling (he’d gotten the official step-by-step the night before in preparation for Richie’s discharge). While he was there, standing at Richie’s back, he pulled loose the two ties of Richie’s hospital gown and re-examined the bandage he’d applied himself that morning. He’d done a decent job for his first attempt, comparable to some of the less practiced nurses (but not Sarah, she was the best).</p><p>With the hospital gown off, Eddie got a full gander at Richie’s bare chest and while technically he understood Richie wasn’t that fucking high school kid he knew top to bottom, it was still shocking to see how much his body had changed. Wide and sturdy and smattered with more hair. Eddie didn’t have a lot of chest hair and he shaved what little grew in. Richie on the other hand, had a pleasant fuzz to him and Eddie wondered, briefly, if the hair would be coarse to the touch. Any further rumination, however, was lost to laughter when Richie started trying to wrangle himself into his t-shirt without straining his sore shoulder, suddenly becoming 90% elbow and twice confusing the second sleeve for the head hole.</p><p>Eddie, digging through Richie’s lightly packed duffle bag, realized belatedly that the spoiled Californian idiot hadn’t packed anything as warm as the jacket he’d lost the night they fought It even though it was nearly <em>October </em>and they were in Maine. He didn’t even have a sweater. So with a lot of grumbling, Eddie dug through his own luggage – the one he’d repacked at Mikes earlier on in the week to keep at the hospital – and fished out the white oversized zip-up hoodie he’d been sleeping in.</p><p>“It’s the biggest thing I have,” Eddie told him, shoving it towards Richie who gaped at the soft material in his hands like it was a blanket infected with small pox. “I’ve worn it a bunch but I don’t think anything else will fit you.”</p><p>When Richie didn’t respond, just thumbed the fabric, eyes wide, Eddie moved to snatch it away.</p><p>“Okay fine, I get it, sorry it’s gross.” Richie didn’t <em>use </em>to be so weird about sharing clothes – though admittedly it normally went the other way around, Eddie wearing his. And they weren’t <em>kids </em>anymore so maybe it wasn’t exactly normal <em>now</em> but it was fucking cold outside and Richie was still healing and it was just a fucking sweater.</p><p>“No!” Richie half shouted, pulling it away from Eddie’s reaching hands and trying to wiggle into it. “No, it’s perfect, thanks Eds,” he said, face fucking reverent while he fiddled with the zipper.</p><p>It wasn’t a bad fit. Richie’s stupid shoulders were probably stretching it out but Eddie only wore it when he was being lazy, anyways. And Richie was smiling shyly, his glasses knocked askew still from putting on his shirt, looking more like his teenage self than a forty-year-old man. Eddie reached up a hand and poked the thick frame of his glasses until they sat even on his nose, Richie grinning like a lunatic the whole while.</p><p>When Richie was fully dressed and re-slinged, Eddie exhaled a breath of relief he’d been holding onto for a week. Richie was okay. He hadn’t died (even though that had been a <em>very </em>close call). He was still hurt but he was going to get better and Eddie was going to help him do that. He was wearing Eddie’s sweater and they were going to Los Angeles together.</p><p><em>Together</em>. That sounded nice even in Eddie’s head.</p><p>Richie hugged Sarah goodbye, tears in his eyes. He cajoled her into giving him her home address, claiming it was to send her a Christmas card since she’d saved his life, and it took Eddie a moment to remember Richie was gay and therefore probably uninterested in her so Eddie didn’t have to give him a lecture about sexual harassment and inappropriate behavior later on.</p><p>When he asked about it on their way out the hospital doors, Richie turned to him and grinned. “Oh, I’m totally buying her a new laptop. Her shitty ex-boyfriend stole hers and she’s been watching <em>The Good Place</em> through the window on her neighbors TV.”</p><p>Eddie blinked.</p><p>“It’s <em>such a good show</em>, Eds,” Richie added, emphatically, like that was the part that confused Eddie. “And she, like, saved my life and was super nice and let you stay even though I don’t think that’s totally normal or whatever so yeah. The woman deserves a laptop.”</p><p>“Well, it is her <em>job</em>. She is getting <em>paid </em>to do those things.”</p><p>“Not enough,” Richie scoffed and Eddie hummed in vague agreement. “And if I can’t use my fake-heteronormative dick-joke money to buy a very nice nurse a thank you present for putting up with me and my <em>wonderful</em> but very domineering husband, what’s the fucking point?”</p><p>‘<em>Domineering</em>’ was certainly one of the nicer ways Eddie had heard himself described. Up-tight, high-maintenance, annoying, a fucking handful, and anal were all used much more frequently and those were just in his place of work but ‘<em>domineering</em>’ made it sound like all that was an intentional part of his personality.  </p><p>Somewhere between his specific forgiving choice of adjective and the overly-generous gift he intended to send to Sarah, Eddie decided Richie was, despite what Eddie might have thought as a child, surprisingly <em>kind</em>. Not that he wasn’t when he was young – Richie practically threw himself on Bowers fists if the psycho was picking on Bill or Stan or Eddie (before he got carted off the Juniper Hill and wasn’t seen again until he was stabbing Eddie in the fucking face) but as a kid Richie had never been <em>thoughtful</em>.</p><p>Now Eddie wasn’t sure what to make of the fact that Richie had changed in that small way, objectively for the better even, or why Eddie couldn’t decide if he liked it or not. Maybe it was because Eddie still felt like the exact same person he’d been when he was thirteen – selfish and self-absorbed and lagging behind his friends in so many different ways, proven by the fact that a part of Eddie wanted to grab Richie and tug him back a few steps to keep them even, terrified he might one day look up and see Richie had disappeared ahead of him past the horizon.</p><p>The Losers were all gathered in the parking lot, Mike leaning out the window of his truck and Bill, Bev, and Ben waving merrily from Richie’s fuck-off rental, the convertible top folded down. They all whooped and cheered melodramatically when they saw Richie, who hissed and cringed once he stepped out of the door and into full sunlight.</p><p>“<em>He lives</em>!” Bev shouted.</p><p>“Didn’t think you could get rid of me that easy, did you Marsh?” Richie shouted back, grinning ear to ear.</p><p>Eddie and Richie piled into Mike’s pick-up truck, Eddie glancing into the truck bed to find only Mike’s two suitcases and Silver, belted down and covered in a tarp, Richie’s bloodstain thankfully washed away. Richie cajoled Eddie into the middle seat and Eddie only tokenly griped about it, very aware he wanted to overwrite his last memory in Mike’s truck (Richie facedown against the metal, pulse fading under Eddie’s fingertips, Bill eyes silently leaking tears as he applied pressure to Richie’s back, Bev leaning out the cab window chanting ‘<em>he’ll make it, he’s gotta make it, fuck, Richie, hold on</em>’) with something better.</p><p>It wasn’t exactly comfortable watching that memory overlay the present – a present where Mike and Richie sang along to ‘Come on Eileen’ playing over the radio, Richie’s fingers drumming out the beat on Eddie’s knee where he’d let his hand fall casual as fucking anything, Mike’s arm stretched over the back of the seat boxing him in with friendship and positivity.</p><p><em>Eddie </em>got to be the sandwich this time. No wonder Bev monopolized that gimmick. It was pretty fucking nice.</p><p>The restaurant in Bangor that Bill found for lunch no doubt had a significantly higher health-rating than anything within Derry city limits and thankfully didn’t serve Chinese. The tables were covered in white linen and the wait staff were dressed in formal vests and ties. It was, in fact, nicer than any restaurant Eddie had ever eaten in outside of a work event but that was possibly a very skewed scale because Myra didn’t like eating at restaurants; she preferred eating her own carefully measured and prepared meals where she could control the portions and the salt and the fat and make sure any meat was cooked so thoroughly any hint of bacteria (or flavor) was burnt to ashes. And since he started dating Myra around the time he started making enough money to explore any of the raved about restaurants in New York, Eddie didn’t have much experience with fine dining. Eddie had a moment where he worried he was underdressed but one look at Richie put him at ease.</p><p>After Bill conferred with the host at the front podium, the smartly-dressed man addressed the group, “Sirs, madam,” before turning to lead the Losers deeper into the restaurant. Eddie watched both Richie and Bev go comically wide-eyed and exchange looks.</p><p>‘<em>Madam</em>,” Richie mouthed at Bev, proffering his good arm like a gentleman out of <em>Pride and fucking Prejudice</em> or some shit.</p><p>‘<em>Sir</em>,’ Bev mouthed back, looping her arm through his and plastering on a pseudo hoity-toity face like she was playing make-believe, which didn’t really ad up in Eddie’s mind because he knew for a fucking <em>fact</em> she was one of the richest of the bunch and spent a lot of time living the kind of glamorous life people used to make reality TV shows about.</p><p>Then again, before Derry 2.0, she hadn’t known she was the grown-up version of a kid who lived in the sketchy apartments on the end of town, the one who got garbage poured over her head on a regular basis and sewed her own clothes because that was cheaper than buying brands. <em>That </em>Bev would have been tickled fucking pink to be called ‘<em>madam</em>’ in a fancy restaurant<em>.</em></p><p>Richie was easier to understand. No one in their right mind would address Richie as ‘<em>sir</em>’ unless they were being sarcastic. The asshole was wearing flip flops and a borrowed sweater for fuck’s sake. No, the heckler from that semi-viral YouTube video who called Richie a shit-stain at one of his gigs before Richie absolutely flayed him alive made way more sense than a fancy garcon calling him ‘sir’.</p><p>Eddie followed behind the pair of them walking arm in arm, struck hard over the head with an unbearable sort of fondness that rivaled something weirder and tighter and more uncomfortable. Bev and Richie always had a strange bond that Eddie couldn’t make much sense of. He had been a little angry about that when he was thirteen and felt entitled to the space beside Richie like it had his fucking name on it <em>because it should</em>. They were best fucking friends, right?</p><p>That might have been a relatively normal way to feel when he was young and terrified his much cooler friends would ditch him for someone less… Eddie-ish… but forty-year-old Eddie still couldn’t resist the urge to stick out a foot and catch Richie’s ankle to make him stumble a bit, a ridiculous rush of endorphins lighting up his brain when Richie turned to him and grinned like a fucking idiot, like Eddie had somehow just told the best joke he’d ever heard, like he couldn’t smile wide enough to express all the happiness stored inside him.</p><p>‘<em>That’s right</em>,’ Eddie thought. ‘<em>Keep your eyes on me</em>.’</p><p>As it turned out, people ate in nice restaurants for a reason.</p><p>The only Loser who seemed to be enjoying his food more than Eddie was Richie (who had been subsisting on crappy hospital fare and smuggled in breakfast sandwiches for nearly a week). The bastard kept on making lewd noises with every bite – ones that immediately called to mind Richie’s husky ‘<em>come on, rub me down, Eds</em>,’ that occasionally still popped up unexpectedly in Eddie’s head uninvited – but when Eddie told Richie to shut the fuck up with his moaning and groaning, Ben turned to Eddie with a weird look and said, “Eddie, for once Richie <em>wasn’t </em>talking…?”</p><p>Stuffed to bursting with a good meal (pasta – he hadn’t had pasta in <em>years</em> – and maybe it was a bad idea to test if he was allergic to gluten when he was about to get on a plane for ten hours but fuck, even if he shat himself it’d be worth it) and so fucking happy to be surrounded by friends, they made their way together to the airport, Bill riding with Mike to continue a conversation they’d started at the table and Eddie driving Richie’s fuck-off rental because in theory the idiot who rented it should be present when they returned it to Hertz.</p><p>It was probably too cold for the top to be down, the first chill of fall whipping at their cheeks and noses (Myra would definitely be fretting about Eddie catching a cold if she knew), but the air rushing past Eddie’s face felt cleansing. This was the last part of him Maine would ever get to touch, the breeze that whipped past his ears and tussled Bev’s hair and dusted Ben’s cheeks pink and sifted through Richie’s outstretched fingers.</p><p>It wasn’t until they were cruising down Union, nearly at the airport, that Richie jolted from softly grinning out the windshield and practically shouted, “<em>SHIT </em>what about Bowers?!”</p><p>Eddie nearly slammed on the brakes on instinct.</p><p>“<em>JESUS FUCK</em>, <em>dude</em>, you scared the crap out of me!” Eddie screamed back, gripping the steering wheel tight and trying to calm his racing heart.</p><p>“Wait, what the fuck, how come there haven’t been police or, like, the news or whatever? <em>Recently ‘out’ comedian Richie Tozier lobotomizes escaped felon with an axe, more at eleven</em>,” he ripped out fast in a startlingly impressive newscaster Voice. “I mean, the internet lost their minds over Kimmy K. getting robbed at gunpoint but I <em>murdered </em>someone – is it weird I’m a little offended?”</p><p>“Yes, it’s weird,” Ben answered immediately at the same time Eddie said, “You didn’t <em>murder </em>someone, Richie, it was self-defense.”</p><p>“And I love you babe but you aren’t Kim Kardashian-level famous,” Bev added, giving Richie’s head a little pat.</p><p>“No, I mean obviously.” Richie struggled to turn in his seat, starring at Eddie’s profile. “But <em>come on</em>. If Carrot Top robbed a bank, it’d make the fucking news.”</p><p>“Oh!” Beverly said excitedly, like they were playing a game, “<em>Is </em>Richie Carrot Top-famous? Let’s discuss.”</p><p>“Seriously guys,” Richie demanded, absolutely <em>boring </em>into Eddie with his magnified eyes dripping fear and Eddie hated it, had no idea what to do to make Richie go back to smiling and humming along contentedly with the radio. “What aren’t you telling me? Oh <em>fuck</em> – wait, is he not <em>actually </em>dead? Is that what this is about? Is that mullet wearing psycho still walking around with a fucking hole in the back of his head?!”</p><p>Richie turned his huge eyes on Bev and Ben in the back seat, or maybe he was checking to make sure Bowers hadn’t rolled out from under the car ala <em>Cape Fear</em>.</p><p>“No, Richie, he’s gone,” Ben said, leaning forward and putting that huge comforting hand on Richie’s shoulder. Shit, was that what Eddie should have done? Why was everyone else so good at those sorts of casual, reassuring touches?</p><p>“He’s where he belongs,” Bev said darkly and Eddie watched her scootch a little lower down her seat in the rearview mirror.</p><p>“Okay, super ominous. Also, <em>what</em>?”</p><p>Since the first day of Richie’s stay in the hospital – since Eddie had been forced to acknowledge the problem by practically walking into it – Eddie hadn’t thought about Bowers in more than a passing, annoyed-about-his-hurting-cheek kind of way. The heated, mostly silent conversation with Bill about whether things were ‘<em>taken care of</em>’ (both of them sounding like bad mafia rip offs) had shockingly put all his worries to rest even though, now that he thought about it, that was fucking <em>insane.</em></p><p>Unlike Richie (who was grievously wounded and on a lot of medication and focused on healing) Eddie didn’t have very many excuses <em>not </em>to think about the man who’s death he helped cover up. That he hadn’t asked any follow up questions probably made him a terrible friend but, to be fair, around the time Mike and Bill were finishing up with whatever they’d done with Bowers, Eddie was trying to soothe a screaming Richie back down into his hospital bed and then when Bill showed up, Richie went full sob-fest and tore some of his stitches so… Eddie was preoccupied. And surrounded by nurses. And honestly he didn’t really care what happened to Bowers as long as he was gone and never coming back.</p><p>Eddie didn’t realize his hand had drifted up to his cheek to outline the shape of where Bowers’ knife had stabbed him until Richie’s eyes flashed over to him again.</p><p>“Bill and Mike dropped him down one of the Morlock holes,” Ben said barely loud enough to be heard over the wind whipping past them.</p><p>“One of those creepy pipes out in the Barrens?” Richie asked, the image of one springing up seamlessly in Eddie’s mind. A sewer tunnel with a manhole cover, half overgrown with shrubbery and buried under dead leaves. There were countless of them throughout the Barrens. One time, when they were very young, before they knew what kind of monster lived under Derry, he, Bill, and Richie had dragged one of the covers off, just enough to peek down while Stan kept a notable (and probably wise) distance.</p><p>A deep hole. A horrible smell. The distant gleam of silver grates in the dark and the sound of trickling water.</p><p>The sewers were the no-man’s land of Derry – the Losers knew that better than anyone. So many children never came back, not even in pieces. No one was going to find Bowers down there.</p><p>“They dropped him down head first,” Bev shrugged. “Made it look like he tripped and fell.”</p><p>“And the axe?” Eddie asked, suddenly very concerned about fingerprints and DNA and missing cultural artefacts.</p><p>“Hey, did you know Mike’s got a fairly extensive background in antique restoration?” Ben asked sounding genuinely impressed, the nerd. “All those displays in the library were his doing, he’d restored all that stuff himself. The cases got busted in a break-in so everything needed a thorough clean but now they’re all good as new.”</p><p>“Good as <em>old</em>,” Bev corrected.</p><p>“Right,” Ben sighed, looking impossibly soft at Bev’s bad joke. “Everything’s safely back in their new, sturdier cases –”</p><p>“Ben built those himself,” Bev inserted.</p><p>“- and, fragile as the antiques are, Mike left very specific care instructions that mostly involve leaving them alone except for sporadic, un-invasive cleaning.”</p><p>Richie sat tense and silent. Richie was <em>never </em>silent – and Eddie couldn’t even begin to imagine what he was thinking, stealing a glance to find Richie’s forehead wrinkled in thought. Eddie considered reaching across the center console to lay a hand on Richie’s knee, the way Richie had done so easily in Mike’s car to him, but something stayed his hand.</p><p>“Listen honey,” Bev leaned forward, fingers sifting through the curly hair at the base of Richie’s neck. Eddie swallowed and turned back to the road. “You don’t need another thing tying you to Derry. And neither did Mike or Eddie or anyone else. Bowers body was a variable we couldn’t risk. Sure, if we reported it to the police, things might have been okay. He was a known killer and an escaped convict and you were acting to save Mike’s life.”</p><p>“But Derry… does something to people,” Ben picked up almost perfectly where Bev left off. “And maybe that was It – maybe that was alien magic making everyone cruel and evil and racist. But maybe that’s just <em>people</em>. We didn’t want to risk it – not now we’ve finally got each other back.”</p><p>The car was silent for a beat except for the faint song on the radio and the wind rushing past Eddie’s ears. He stole a quick look at Richie from the corner of his eyes, trying to gauge the confused look on his face.</p><p>“I think Bill let Mike make the final call,” Bev hummed, still stroking Richie’s hair. “Sorry we couldn’t ask you what you wanted. You were –”</p><p>“Busy bleeding to death. Yeah, no totally, I get it,” Richie finally spoke, voice cracking. “Another question, is it weird that I think I love you guys <em>more </em>for covering up a murder for me? Is that normal? Should we do another blood pact to round things out?”</p><p>Eddie wasn’t totally surprised to see Richie thumb away a few tears but they were what <em>finally </em>gave Eddie the courage to unstick his hand from the wheel and lay it on Richie’s knee.</p><p>“The guy <em>stabbed </em>me Rich,” Eddie reminded him firmly. “<em>In the face</em>.”</p><p>Richie’s hand landed on top of Eddie’s and squeezed. Eddie very intentionally kept his eyes on the road. “That is an excellent point, Eddie Spaghetti. For messing with your beautiful mug, the man <em>absolutely</em> had to die.” And Richie made it <em>sound </em>like a joke but there was something about the tight clench of Richie’s fingers over his own that made Eddie second guess what was going on in Richie’s head.</p><p>“So, you think this is going to turn into a <em>I Know What You Did Last Summer</em> thing?” Richie continued, tone way too light, but somehow perfectly cutting through the tension. “Am I more the Jennifer Love Hewitt type or Sarah Michelle Gellar?”</p><p>“Jennifer Love Hewitt lives to be in the sequel so maybe let’s stick with her,” Ben chuckled.</p><p>“<em>But</em> if he’s Sarah Michelle Gellar does that make Eddie Freddie Prince Jr. because if so that changes <em>everything</em>.”</p><p>That spawned a ridiculous conversation that filled the last ten minutes of the drive to the airport.</p><p>And maybe there <em>was </em>something a little magic left in Derry because as soon as Eddie stopped thinking about Bowers, he faded to the back of his mind like a bad dream from a long time ago. It was a surreal feeling considering Eddie had once gotten himself so worked up worrying that he’d left the vacuum cleaner out (a pet peeve of Myra’s that always earned him a scolding about cleaning up after himself) that he’d hardly paid attention in the morning meeting, messed up the numbers on an important report, and rushed home on his lunchbreak only to discover he’d put it away exactly the way he was supposed to, probably on autopilot.</p><p>Still, thoughts of Bowers simply wouldn’t stay put in his head which, admittedly, might have more to do with the more pressing anxiety that was getting on a giant metal machine and flying across the country but Eddie was doing his best to put off those thoughts until the very last minute.</p><p>They returned the car and met Mike and Bill in the departures drop-off, Richie throwing himself at them the moment they were within reach, wrapping his good arm around Mike and leaning into Bill until he got the hint to smush Richie between them in a three-person hug. When Richie pulled back, he was teary-eyed again but he made a show of kissing Mike loudly on the forehead and then everyone was laughing.</p><p>Richie’s wasn’t the only teary face once Mike made his rounds, all of them holding on a little longer, squeezing a little tighter, meaning it all a little more when they told each other ‘<em>I love you</em>’.</p><p>When Mike unhanded Eddie, he smiled down at him warm and fond, his hand still on Eddie’s arm. “You take care of him, alright?” Mike said, nodding to Richie who was bent at the knees and leaning backwards, laughing full-volume at something Bev had said. Eddie scoffed, wiping his eye with the back of his wrist.</p><p>“Course,” Eddie answered thickly, leaning in for one more half-hug.</p><p>Then Mike was climbing into his truck a huge grin splitting his face. The Losers gathered at the curb, waving him off and cheering, calling out ‘<em>I love you!</em>’s and ‘<em>safe travels!</em>’s and ‘<em>miss you already!</em>’s long after Mike would be able to hear.</p><p>And it was kind of beautiful watching Mike’s truck disappear into airport traffic, bound for new adventures. Richie must have been thinking something similar because he said, “I’m glad he’s first this time,” eyes still on the trail of cars. Eddie turned to him and frowned but Bill was nodding sagely.</p><p>“It was his t-turn to leave.”</p><p>“Damn straight Billiam. Now then Losers, on to greater things!”</p><p>It was significantly more difficult to travel with as much luggage as Eddie had when he was flying instead of driving and <em>three separate times </em>he had to snatch a bag out of Richie’s hand until they were bickering loudly in the middle of the check in line about whether pulling a suitcase with four spinner wheels would aggravate Richie’s still healing back. Ben smoothly intervened, easily maneuvering two of Eddie’s cases to the counter and smiling charmingly at the employee on the other side.</p><p>Richie slid over his credit card before Eddie had a chance to reach for his wallet – another thing to bicker about since Richie only had the one carry-on slung over Eddie’s shoulder – but Richie smiled and shrugged and rolled his eyes at the woman behind the counter saying, “<em>My husband</em>,” like that explained everything, his voice so fucking fond Eddie felt something in his throat tighten up.</p><p>“I’m not your husband <em>anymore</em>,” Eddie hissed as they stepped back so Bev and Ben could check into their flights to Washington where Ben’s boat awaited them.</p><p>Richie gaped, faux-scandalized. “<em>I </em>don’t remember getting a divorce.” At the word divorce, Eddie’s throat constricted even more.</p><p>“Aww, let Richie play house a little longer,” Bev simpered, sliding her arm through Richie’s and pressing her cheek to his bicep. That strange swooping jealousy hit Eddie again. Fucking Beverly, always taking Richie’s side.</p><p>“Richie can play with his fucking dick – I’m sure he has plenty of practice.”</p><p>“That I do, Eds my man,” Richie guffawed, looking entirely too smug.</p><p>They met back up with Bill at security and Eddie got into another fight – this time with a TSA officer – trying to explain Richie’s situation.</p><p>“He <em>can’t </em>raise his hand over his fucking head, do you not see the sling? And he’s got a metal pin in his shoulder – are – Richie, you’re just gonna keep beeping, asshole.”</p><p>Eventually they managed to make it through the scanners without getting pulled aside as potential terrorist threats (Eddie <em>refused </em>to believe it had anything to do with one of the officers recognizing Richie even though Richie definitely acted like they had only made it through on his good will) and then they were saying goodbye to Bill who was flying out of another terminal. There were more hugs and more tears and Richie planted another kiss right in the middle of Bills forehead with a loud smack that made Bill laugh. Eddie tried to not to think about that when Bill pulled him in for a hug and mostly succeeded, smiling like a little kid when Bill clapped him on the shoulder and said, “I’m p-proud of you, Eddie.”</p><p>Then the four remaining Losers were sidling up to a bar.</p><p>Eddie had a fraught moment of panic, torn between ordering a drink like Ben and Bev (casually chatting about how much easier it was to sleep on a flight with a bit of a buzz to ‘<em>ease the zzz’s</em>’ as Richie described it) or whether he wanted to take a Klonopin which, besides relieving anxiety, had the added benefit of drowsiness. His instincts screamed ‘<em>take the pill</em>’ but every time he thought of the little orange bottle in his bag, he got a flash of his mother standing next to the sink, packing his pill planner with placebos.</p><p>Plus a Klonopin would make him groggy and a little slow which would be a problem if he wanted to keep an eye on Richie who was almost certainly going to be miserable and in a lot of pain and would probably also not bother mentioning that to Eddie unless he was asked. His back still couldn’t take his weight for too long without his face twisting up and Eddie had enough general knowledge about planes to know they were cramped and Richie was a big guy. Like, a stupidly big guy. One that took up a lot of space with his stupid broad shoulders and his stupid long legs. None of this boded well for two long flights.</p><p>Deciding the whole point of getting on a plane in the first place was to look out for Richie, Eddie asked for a gin and tonic (double, since the bartender offered - apparently they didn’t mess the fuck around at airport bars) and vindictively ordered Richie a Shirley Temple since the idiot wasn’t allowed to mix booze with his pain medication. Richie, to Eddie’s secret delight, gasped in mock outrage but swirled his straw around almost giddily, winking when he licked at the cherry like a fucking sex offender.</p><p>Two drinks in – Eddie feeling the prefect combination of slightly more relaxed but also ready for a nap – Ben paid their tab because he won a tournament round of Rock Paper Scissors and they all wandered over to Bev and Ben’s gate, letting most of the thinning crowd board before they smushed together in a four-person hug. Again, Richie found excuses to kiss the departing Losers, catching Bev on both her cheeks and going in for Ben’s lips. “Always thought you’d have the most pillowy soft lips, Benny-boy,” he crowed and Bev collapsed into laughter when Ben’s cheeks went tomato red. Eddie, his stomach twisting uncomfortably, asked himself whether the pasta had been a bad idea after all. The weirder thought that followed; the ‘<em>if I weren’t leaving with Richie, would he kiss me too?</em>’ wasn’t worth acknowledging.</p><p>“Call us anytime for any reason,” Bev said seriously while Richie slung his good arm over Eddie’s shoulders. “None of us are alone anymore.” Richie tugged Eddie a little tighter into his side and Eddie let himself leech comfort from the gesture. It was good to be leaving with Richie. It felt <em>right</em>.</p><p>They stood waving a little ridiculously at Bev and Ben as they disappeared down the jet bridge and then it was just Richie and Eddie left to themselves, loitering at their own gate pre-boarding, standing in front of the big glass windows looking out onto the plane Eddie would soon be inside of, flying through the air, way the fuck up in the sky. People in orange vests were scurrying around it, unloading the previous flights luggage and twisting nozzles into its underbelly. They seemed very small in comparison to the plane.</p><p>Eddie, for some fucking reason, thought longingly of the broken glasses tucked into his laptop case, his fingers missing the shape of them in his pocket.</p><p>Richie, leaning against the glass and checking his phone, said, “Mike’s probably driving over the Maine border riiiiiiiiiiighht….. <em>now</em>. Adios Michael, may the rest of the continental US treat you better.” When Eddie didn’t acknowledge anything he said, Richie continued, “Hey, Eddie, you know those weird blankets you get on planes?”</p><p>“No Richie, I don’t.”</p><p>“Come on, don’t cock block my bit,” he goaded. “You know ‘em. Wrapped in plastic and super static-y.”</p><p>“I <em>don’t </em>know them, Richie,” Eddie blurted. “<em>I’ve never been on a plane before</em>.”</p><p>Richie slid sideways against the glass and almost fell over in shock. Eddie glared at him. “Shit, <em>seriously </em>Eds?”</p><p>“That’s <em>not</em> my name. And yeah I’m fucking serious.”</p><p>“<em>How</em>?” Richie demanded, his voice infuriatingly filled with disbelief.</p><p>“Uh, it’s pretty easy to not get on a plane, shithead,” Eddie bit back sarcastically. “You just <em>don’t</em>.”</p><p>“Yeah but like, haven’t you ever gone on vacation somewhere too far to drive?”</p><p>Eddie pursed his lips and shook his head. He<em> liked</em> driving. And Myra didn’t like vacations. The furthest they’d ever gotten from New York was Charlotte, North Carolina when her father died. It was a ten hour trip and Eddie had suggested they fly but Myra hated planes. She said they were filled with germs and disease and were too cramped and if they crashed they’d die in a fiery inferno and she didn’t want to stand around in an airport crying and making a spectacle of herself. So Eddie drove the whole ten hours there and then the whole ten hours back a few days later while Myra picked the music and told him to slow down and stop yelling so much because it was bad for his heart.</p><p>“Well then,” Richie said, lifting his one good hand like he was gonna clap and realizing too late he only had the one arm free. He slapped his hand to Eddie’s shoulder jovially instead. “You are in for a – <em>well</em>, not a <em>treat </em>exactly, but objectively it’s pretty fucking wild that someone figured out how to make a piece of metal stay up in the sky and book it at, like, what? 500-something miles an hour? I mean we’re practically monkeys with thumbs -”</p><p>“Not really helping, dude,” Eddie snapped, watching the airline employees chat amongst themselves at the counter. Were they talking about how likely the engine was to drop off the bottom of the plane? Were they laughing about how painfully the passengers would all die? Were they thinking, ‘<em>oh these poor fucking fools</em>’?</p><p>Fuck, maybe he should have stuck with the pill. It would have made him groggy but Richie (the smug asshole) could be just fine on his own.</p><p>“Shit, sorry, are you anxious?” Richie asked, eyes scrunching up behind his glasses. Eddie shot him a glare and Richie cringed then hesitantly offered, “Do you want another drink?”</p><p>“Rich. Do we need to talk about your substance abuse problems <em>right now</em>?”</p><p>“<em>Fuck </em>no. I just…” Richie bit his lip, worrying a dry piece of skin with his teeth. “You know I do this all the time, right?”</p><p>Eddie rolled his eyes. “What the fuck, are you <em>bragging </em>now?”</p><p>“No, Eddie, I’m trying to say that it’s super safe, okay? I’ve gone whole years where I’m on a plane to a new city twice a week. I’m talking <em>hundreds </em>of flights. The worst thing that’s ever happened is turbulence.” Eddie’s heart clenched. Right. Turbulence. What the fuck did that even <em>mean</em>? But Richie was still talking, “Oh and once this dude sat next to me and tried to rope me into one of those Scientology e-meter readings <em>while eating a tuna and onion sandwich</em> which was fucking disgusting but also actually kind of funny –” It was. Eddie knew the story from Richie’s early stand-up.</p><p>“So,” Richie took a deep breath but Eddie was too busy watching the people scurry around the plane. “Would it make you feel better if I ran down what’s going to happen?” Eddie nodded tightly, Richie physically turning him away from the window and bending at the knees <em>super condescendingly</em> to stare at Eddie full-on, laying his good hand on Eddie’s shoulder. The brunt of Richie’s entire attention had always been a magnetic force and Eddie forced himself to breathe.</p><p>“In a few minutes, they’re going to let us on the plane. We’re in first class so you won’t have anyone breathing down your neck in line and,” he somewhat happily brandished his ticket, pushing it up alongside the one tightly gripped in Eddie’s fist. Eddie frowned. “The only person you’ll have to deal with sitting next to you is me, which – bad luck for you, I guess – but better the evil you know, right?”</p><p>Eddie chuckled, reluctantly, seeing their seat number had consecutive lettering.</p><p>“Once everyone else is on board, the plane will drive out to a runway and take off. It might be <em>slighty </em>bumpy but once we’re in the air, things’ll smooth out just fine.”</p><p>“What about turbulence?” Eddie grumbled, still hinged on that word he didn’t fully understand.</p><p>“It’s really not that bad – like driving over a bumpy road.” Eddie was sure he didn’t look convinced because he didn’t <em>feel </em>convinced so Richie noticeably pivoted.</p><p>“Pilots have to do, like, a million hours before they get to fly commercial jets. And flight attendants are rigorously trained for every possibly emergency. Literally, dude, it’s crazy. They’re kind of national fucking heroes – I read this one article about how they’re at the front lines of stopping human trafficking…” Eddie scowled and Richie self-corrected, “Right, right, back on track.</p><p>“We’ll be up in the air for about three hours, then we land for a layover in Chicago – one long enough to get you another gin and tonic before we put your butt back on <em>another</em> plane – <em>don’t give me that look</em> – and then we just do it all over again and we’re home!” Richie grimaced and hurried to rephrase, “I mean <em>we’re there</em>. I’m home. You have a different separate home that’s not my home.” Richie cringed again, more pronounced.</p><p>“It’s gonna take ten hours but you’ll probably be asleep for most of it or you can read shit on my iPad or listen to music or we can watch a movie on my laptop or you can do whatever it is <em>risk analysts </em>do on your own laptop or I can talk your fucking ear off for ten hours straight, whatever you need Eds.”</p><p>Eddie searched Richie for that faintly mocking glint that some people got when Eddie had a panic attack in public – the one that said ‘<em>why the fuck are you freaking out</em>’ or ‘<em>get the fuck over it</em>’ or ‘<em>jesus, you’re a hassle</em>’. But Richie’s stupid goon face was open and sincere.</p><p>Eddie slumped in forced calm, manually unclenching all the muscles he’d inadvertently been bunching up tight. Richie’s warm hand trailed from Eddie’s shoulder to his neck, thumb swiping once at the skin under Eddie’s jaw before he pulled his hand away and stuffed it into his pocket. Eddie kind of wished he hadn’t.</p><p>“I uh –” Suddenly Richie sounded so much less sure of himself. “Did that help at all? I kind of just rambled at you…”</p><p>“As if that’s anything new,” Eddie grumbled, but seeing Richie’s face fall ever so slightly, he hurried to add, “It was great, Rich,” his gut twisting a little at the slight widening of Richie’s already magnified eyes. “I’m – I’m really glad I’m going with you,” he said next, shocked to hear the words come out of his mouth. “Fucking death-trap airplane and all.”</p><p>“<em>I’m really glad you’re coming with me too</em>!” Richie, putting on a high, weepy voice, dragging Eddie into his chest with a grip on the back of his neck again but Eddie saw the actual watery sheen to his eyes before he was smashed nose-first into Richie’s (<em>broad</em>) chest.</p><p>Boarding went just as smoothly as Richie promised and Richie let him decide between the window and the aisle. After maybe too long obviously agonizing over the decision, Richie suggested he’d probably like the window more and Eddie trusted his plane-flying expertise. It put him on Richie’s right side, the side with the sling, but that might be a good thing because it minimized the instinct to reach for his hand just to have something to grip.</p><p>Eddie dutifully paid very close attention to the safety spiel, elbowing Richie to make sure he was following along too (and then apologizing when Richie grunted out a little ‘<em>ow</em>, dude’). Eddie pressed himself to the window to watch the scenery speed by during take-off but Richie found a way to reach across himself and lay his palm on Eddie’s knee and the point of warmth was bracing.</p><p>When the ground disappeared below a blanket of clouds, Eddie turned wide eyes to Richie who grinned in an excited, contagious way and offered Eddie one of his earbuds. Bjork’s ‘Human Behavior’ snapped to a start in Eddie’s ear, the first song on her album Debut, a cassette Richie had worn to shreds listening to on repeat their senior year. Eddie raised an eyebrow at Richie, who reached up with one huge, probably unwashed hand and pulled Eddie’s head until his temple rested on his bad shoulder.</p><p>“Doesn’t this hurt?” Eddie had to ask even as he settled himself against Richie’s bicep, crossing his arms over his chest and trying to get comfortable, rubbing his face against the soft cotton of his own sweater, the novelty of feeling it on someone else’s body (on <em>Richie’s</em> body) surprisingly pleasant.</p><p>“Nope, it’s perfect,” Richie promised, resting his cheek against the top of Eddie’s head.</p><p>It was funny the things Eddie remembered or when a certain memory chose to hit. With his head against Richie’s arm, a million afternoons burst into life behind Eddie’s closed eyes, lazy hours spent laying spread out on Richie’s bed, listening to Richie’s cherished, hand-me-down boom box, one of the speakers blown out.</p><p>Richie still smelled familiar – underneath the hospital antiseptic clinging from his morning discharge and the mature, cologne-y smell of his deodorant - he still had that <em>Richie </em>smell, the same one that clung to his sheets and his skin and the band t-shirts Eddie borrowed when he wanted to make a statement to his mom.</p><p>Maybe he should have been embarrassed about how quickly that smell put him to sleep (the other Eddie, the one who he was before Mike’s phone call, would have been mortified falling asleep on someone’s shoulder in public but that Eddie wouldn’t have been brave enough to get on a plane or save his friends or order pasta at a restaurant, either). Besides, Eddie was tired. He’d had a very long, eventful week filled with new experiences and old friends and a fucking evil-alien-space-clown. He’d earned a goddamn nap.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Richie was pretty sure that if it was possible to die of happiness, he’d be keeling over any fucking second now. He was also so uncomfortable he was considering swearing off air-travel for the rest of his life but that had a lot more to do with the healing cut on his back than anything the plane was doing wrong so that wasn’t entirely fair.</p><p>At least when Eddie had spent the entirety of the first leg of their trip with his head on Richie’s shoulder, being uncomfortable had been worth it. <em>So </em>worth it. That precious little gremlin fucking drooled in his sleep and Richie was pretty sure his heart grew sixteen sizes and his dick, stupidly, tried to get in on that game, which, like, <em>what was that about</em>? Was it the <em>fluids </em>thing? Did it have something to do with his <em>mouth</em>? Was it <em>both</em>? Who the fuck knew.</p><p>And why even question it. If there as a facet to Eddie that didn’t get Richie hot, he hadn’t discovered it yet. Apparently Richie had a new, and very specific kink that was any-and-everything related to Eddie Kaspbrak except it <em>wasn’t </em>new, not at all, he’d been living with it since the birth of time.</p><p>Plus, he was <em>wearing Eddie’s sweater</em>. He wanted to be buried in the damn thing. Eddie had slept in it most of the week, looking cozy and casual and less uptight than he did in his soccer dad polos and slicked back hair. It even fucking <em>smelled </em>like Eddie – like sunshine and his hair product and the masculine smell of his skin. Richie was in heaven.</p><p>Eddie jolted awake when the plane touched down at O’Hare and fuck, how adorable he looked while rubbing the sleep out of his eyes was something Richie both remembered from his childhood and got to learn all anew with the features of Eddie’s adult face. Eddie got all embarrassed-angry when he saw the wet spot on Richie’s shoulder and acted like a fucking scandalized debutant when Richie shrugged it off with a very genuine, “Dude, fucking <em>drown </em>me in your spit, I don’t care. Maybe I’d even be into it.” (For the record, Richie probably would be. That’s just how fucked up he actually was over Eddie).</p><p>Richie shuffled a grumpy Eddie through O’Hare and tried not to ogle him with fucking hearts in his eyes when he pounded back another double gin and tonic while Richie drank a coke and downed his next Dr. K. approved dose of painkillers.</p><p>Richie joined the half-mile long line at Starbucks on autopilot before realizing he hoped to <em>god </em>the painkillers would help him be unconscious for a few hours of their second, longer flight and therefore he probably shouldn’t guzzle back caffeine as badly as he wanted to. But Eddie was bouncing on the balls of his feet and staring at the menu board so he figured he’d grab a slice of coffee cake or one of those protein boxes for when he got hungry later on the plane.</p><p>They shuffled one person up in line, finally stepping into the roped off que in the store when Eddie, brows pinched together into one huge angry caterpillar, shot Richie a gauging kind of look before confessing, “I’d never had coffee before this last week, either,” all in one rush of air.</p><p>Richie, who had to constantly fight the instinct to drape his arm over Eddie’s shoulders (which were really at the absolute <em>perfect </em>height for it, what the fuck) grabbed the relatively safer territory of Eddie’s hoodie sleeve and physically turned Eddie towards him.</p><p>“You’d never had <em>coffee</em>?”</p><p>Eddie met his question with a glare.</p><p>“Wait, so that caramel macchiato – was that your first coffee drink?”</p><p>Eddie’s cheeks threatened to color. “Yeah. The – the kid,” he nudged his chin towards the young person wearing a green apron and hat behind the counter.</p><p>“<em>Barista</em>,” Richie supplied, feeling like maybe his smile was a little <em>too </em>big for his face.</p><p>“The Starbucks-Kid,” Eddie repeated, obstinately. “He recommended it.”</p><p>“And?” Richie asked, the two of them shuffling forward another step. “What did you think?”</p><p>Eddie shrugged and blushed a little and Richie wanted to fucking cry. “It was good but not <em>life changing</em> or whatever. Why do people like coffee so much?”</p><p>“It’s all about that sweet hit of caffeine baby!” Richie crowed, the person in line in front of them turning to cut him an annoyed glance and doing a double take. Shit, better tone it down. Richie turned more fully into Eddie’s space trying to look less like a faintly recognizable celebrity comedian without doing something stupid like pulling up his hood. “You gonna try something new?”</p><p>“I don’t know what to get. Would you just –” Eddie wasn’t meeting his eyes, shuffling around in place and toying with the strap of Richie’s carry-on, his own shoulder bag hanging at his hip. “Would you just order me something? Anything, I don’t care. With almond milk,” he hurried to add as the person at the register wrapped up.</p><p>“Sure thing, Eds,” Richie said, grabbing a couple random pouches of cookies and snacks as he finally stepped up to order.</p><p>It was with entirely too much joy that Richie watched Eddie’s face morph into something truly spectacularly annoyed when his name was called and a cup was set down on the counter.</p><p>“<em>It’s green</em>,” he seethed, Richie shoving the drink into his hand while he picked up his own hot chocolate and sipped, trying to morph his face into something innocent looking. “And there’s <em>ice </em>in it.”</p><p>“Iced green tea latte,” Richie answered, overjoyed with Eddie’s reaction, walking towards their gate and forcing Eddie to follow after him.</p><p>“I asked for coffee –”</p><p>“No, you asked for ‘anything’. And trust me Eds, it’s good. I think you’ll like it.”</p><p>When they were settled in on two horrendous airport chairs, Richie propped his elbow on his knee and his chin on his fist, excitedly watching while Eddie took his first sip.</p><p>Eddie scowled (nothing new) and screwed up his eyes. Took another sip. Smacked his mouth like a fucking weirdo, like he was tasting wine or something, and glared at Richie as he took another long pull from his straw.</p><p>Eddie <em>liked</em> it. Richie fucking <em>preened</em>.</p><p>“So your first coffee,” Richie asked, and Eddie narrowed his eyes to slits while he sipped, licking his lips between tastes in a super distracting, devastatingly sexy kind of way. Fuck. “Did you tell the Starubucks-Kid you’d never had coffee before?”</p><p>“<em>No</em>,” Eddie snapped. His frown twitched into something closer to a pout. “But he probably figured it out.”</p><p>“Wait! What were you wearing when you bought your first coffee?”</p><p>“What the fuck is this, a booty call?” Richie almost snorted hot chocolate out his nose. “Why do you need to know what I was wearing?”</p><p>“Okay, we are <em>definitely </em>going to circle back to your knowledge of booty calls later,” hopefully in graphic detail, “but come on Eds, was it like this? Like what you’re wearing right now?” Richie tugged again at Eddie’s sleeve, sweeping his eyes over the light blue polo shirt tucked into khaki slacks, a sensible brown belt circling his waist.</p><p>“I don’t know, yeah?” Eddie hummed distracted, pulling his drink away from his mouth to eye it thoughtfully. Oh, Eddie <em>really </em>liked it. Fuck, Richie was so stupid happy he could sing. “Minus the hoodie maybe.”</p><p>“I bet you anything that barista <em>absolutely </em>thought you were an ex-Mormon.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“You know, the supper buttoned down look. The forty-year-old coffee virgin. It’s what <em>I’d </em>assume.”</p><p>“What the fuck are you talking about?”</p><p>“Mormon’s can’t drink coffee. Wait, <em>are </em>you a Mormon?” Richie suddenly remembered there was <em>a lot </em>about Eddie he didn’t know even though sometimes it felt like they were wrapped around each other in a knot. As usual, that realization terrified him.</p><p>“<em>No</em>,” Eddie answered emphatically and Richie breathed out a bit of his tension, trying to force himself back into the headspace to be funny.</p><p>“Cause you dress like one, is what I’m saying.”</p><p>Eddie balked. “What’s wrong with the way I dress?”</p><p>“Are you a Mormon who works at Radioshack?”</p><p>“<em>No</em>.”</p><p>“Then why dress like you are?”</p><p>“Why do you dress like a mental patient raided a Good Will?”</p><p>Richie snorted, tilting his head back to let out the full belly laugh burbling up his throat. Fuck, no one alive could insult Richie the way Eddie did. God it was <em>the best</em>. When he finally got a hold of his chuckling, Richie gestured one-armedly to his very casual, <em>very mundane</em> borrowed hoodie and dark wash jeans. He’d even lost his jacket to the hospital biohazard waste bin which kind of sucked – Steve had picked it out for him in an attempt to make Richie more digestible to executives and venue owners during meetings. Now he’d have to find a new boring jacket, assuming of course he’d ever wind up in a situation anyone actually wanted to hire him again. Which was highly debatable.</p><p>“I mean your usual look,” Eddie amended in answer to Richie’s wordless question.</p><p>“What’s my usual look, Eds? Ass to the wind? I’m pretty sure you’ve seen me in a hospital gown more than any real clothing.”</p><p>“The way you look when you do standup,” Eddie answered quickly, waving his hand like it should be obvious. “The hideous shirts.”</p><p>Now wasn’t <em>that </em>interesting. Richie did, in fact, usually dress like a man who only knew the inside of a Good Will. That was a perfect summary of the clothes he wore when he wasn’t <em>On </em>- when Steve wasn’t trying to sell him as <em>Famous and Semi-Respectable Comedian Richie Tozier</em>. Richie <em>used </em>to dress like that on stage too - weird printed shirts and bright colors and goofy graphics that didn’t make sense – but then suits became ‘<em>the look</em>’ or whatever and Steve started making Richie wear pants that fit way too snug in the junk region and fucking <em>blazers</em>. Ugh. And that had been going on for a few years so if Eddie rudimentarily googled ‘Richie Tozier’ after, say, the night at the Jade, he’d have to scroll pretty far back to find Richie doing a show in full Richie glory.</p><p>“Eddie, have you seen my stand-up?” Eddie looked <em>decidedly </em>guilty which was an answer in and of itself. Richie wasn’t sure if he wanted to die or if he already had. “<em>You have</em>.”</p><p>“<em>Some </em>of it. Dude, <em>you’re on TV</em>. And also it’s <em>horrible</em>.”</p><p>“Does that mean you <em>watched </em>me on TV? Holy fuck, did you <em>recognize</em> me?”</p><p>Because Richie had almost recognized Eddie in every man, woman, or particularly scowl-y looking tree that bore a passing resemblance to the sour-faced kid he’d grown up with. Not that he’d thought ‘<em>oh that man/woman/tree looks like Eddie</em>’ because Eddie had been etch-a-sketch shaken from Richie’s brain. But there was a reason Richie loved Steve because he could tear him a new asshole or why his favorite make-up girl was short and bitter and frowned the whole time she styled Richie’s hair or why every man he ever looked at more than twice was police-sketch-passable as Eddie.</p><p>‘<em>There’s something about you</em>,’ a voice had screamed from the depths of Richie’s soul but it was only now he understood what that something was.</p><p>Eddie adamantly glared around at the gathered crowd of travelers. “Kinda.”</p><p>“What kind of ‘<em>kinda</em>’ are we talking about?”</p><p>“I knew there was… something… about you -”</p><p>“My animal magnetism, got it –” Eddie finally met his eyes and it was worth the glare to get hit with those limpid brown pools full force.</p><p>“It was like I <em>knew </em>you but I had no idea why. It pissed me off like crazy. And before you get all stupid about it, I had the same reaction to Bill’s books.”</p><p>Richie guffawed, shelving the rapid patter of his heart for later <em>extensive </em>rumination. He <em>also </em>tucked away that time-tested spike of jealousy he usually was stabbed with anytime Eddie talked about Bill and admitted, “Oh fuck, me too!” feeling a lot less like a total creep.</p><p>“Really?” Eddie said, sounding desperately hopeful enough that Richie realized he probably wasn’t the <em>only </em>one who had some internalized fixation with the friends he forgot.</p><p>“Yeah, I’ve got his whole shitty library at home!” Richie had read Bill’s books obsessively, something hovering just at the edge of understanding, his brain trying to connect two pieces of land with a bridge that wasn’t long enough.</p><p>“Fuckin’ weird, right?” Eddie hummed and Richie nodded in agreement, mentally making a note to snap a picture of his Denborough book shrine and send it to the group chat once he got home.</p><p>“So fuckin’ weird.”</p><p>Assuming he remembered everyone. Which was looking promising. Both Mike and Bill had already texted the group chat with an update and everyone was still present and accounted for in Richie’s brain. Fucking <em>phew</em>.</p><p>It wasn’t until they were settled into their new first class seats, crappy airline pillows tucked carefully behind Richie’s back to ease his wound, Eddie doing something with his laptop that might have been work or might have been writing uni-bomber letters considering how hard he was tapping at the keyboard, that Richie let himself wonder about Eddie watching his stand-up.</p><p>His foremost feeling about it was shame – at least for his most recent stuff – the ones where he was dressed in the clothes Steve picked out for him and reciting the jokes Tony had written for him and pretending super hard to be the person Richie wished he could be if only because his life would be so much fucking easier. His younger stuff wasn’t much better – from a comedy standpoint, it was downright fucking awful – but at least it was <em>his</em>. At least if Eddie had snorted out a brittle chuckle over the Tuna Salad Scientologist, it was <em>Richie </em>making him laugh which was, pathetically, the only thing Richie had ever really wanted in his whole fucking life.</p><p>But there had also always been this weird thought every time he got out on stage, before he stepped out in front of the camera, before he walked out in front of a crowd – a lingering ‘<em>are you there, can you hear me</em>?’ that Richie had attributed to his obvious issues with exterior validation. Now he wondered if he had been subconsciously hoping Eddie would be listening, the same way as a kid he’d pathetically repeat his ‘better’ jokes if he thought Eddie hadn’t heard them the first time, so desperate for Eddie’s attention he’d literally hurt himself climbing trees or smashing bottles just to hear Eddie’s shrill reprimands and feel his tugging hands.</p><p>Once his painkiller kicked in, it was a lot easier to arrange himself in a way that would probably let him sleep, turned ever so slightly towards Eddie because Richie couldn’t fucking help himself. Feeling relaxed and content and excited – <em>so fucking excited </em>to be sitting on an unbearably long flight with Eddie on their way together back to LA where Eddie hadn’t yet specified a return flight (that Richie very stupidly hoped would never happen) – he reached out with his good arm and tapped Eddie’s leg.</p><p>The little jerk turned to him with a scowl that softened after a fraction of a second. “What?”</p><p>“I’m really proud of you, Eds.”</p><p>Eddie squinted at him, obviously suspicious. “<em>Why</em>?”</p><p>“You’re doing so many new things. Flying across the country and drinking coffee and killing monsters. Well, that last one is old fuckin’ hat but you still make it look good.” Richie winked, the effect a little lost when he yawned massively right afterwards.</p><p>“Are you making fun of me?” Eddie demanded, defensive-angry and oddly vulnerable with his big brown eyes anxious under furrowed brows.</p><p>And maybe it was the drugs. Maybe it was the near death experience or the week spent crying in a hospital or the group chat which Bev had sent a picture to right before Richie switched his phone to airplane mode, Ben snuggled into a first class seat, big douchebag headphones on and a sleeping mask covering his eyes.</p><p>Most likely it was Eddie. Eddie and the fingers he curled briefly into white knuckled fists where they hovered over his keyboard and the shiny pink line on his cheek that he occasionally touched when he drifted in his thoughts and the way his gaze raked <em>through </em>Richie, shoving inside him like the space belonged to him because <em>it did</em>.</p><p>Whatever it was, the joke on the tip of Richie’s tongue tasted bitter when Richie swallowed it down. Eddie was worth more than that, and even if being <em>real </em>made Richie feel like he was shriveling up in the sun, the least he could do was try out a little sincerity.</p><p>So Richie looked Eddie straight in his fucking cartoon doe-eyes and said, “You’re a badass, Eds. My fucking hero,” meaning every word.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>And they <i>finally</i> get out of Derry! Hoo-fucking-ray! Thanks for reading!</p><p>Find me on twitter @BadNotso</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter Seven</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: mentions of alcohol abuse, Sonia and Myra's control issues™</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It had to be a testament to Richie’s stupidity that it wasn’t until he was giving Eddie directions from LAX to his apartment (picking up his car from the park-and-fly lot and letting Eddie drive him home because driving was on the list of forbidden activities until Richie was less physically fucked up) that he finally remembered what his apartment looked like and what it would say about <em>him</em> and that maybe it was a terrible idea to bring Eddie here since he would take one look at his place and <em>know things </em>and then maybe turn around and get right back on a plane to New York.</p><p>Richie was eternally grateful it was past 10pm and therefore dark and Eddie was tired and Richie conned him into stopping at an In’N’Out drive thru so he had an excuse to distract him from the neighborhood by poking fries into Eddie’s <em>mostly</em> unresisting mouth. At least he was pretty sure Eddie didn’t notice the finer nuances of Richie’s block – like the rough looking 99¢ store or the converted apartment on the corner with not one, not two, but <em>three </em>rusty RVs lined up in front of it, or the metal bars lining most the windows of the neighboring houses.</p><p>However, despite the conveyor belt of fries heading towards his face, when Richie leaned over to press the garage opener attached to his car keys and the simple gate in front of a <em>very </em>unassuming building started clanking open, Eddie turned and gave him A Look.</p><p>Richie laughed hard in response in the hope Eddie wouldn’t notice how weirdly sweaty and fidgety he suddenly was, sitting in his own passenger seat – a seat he had never once sat in ever in his life.</p><p>“What were you expecting?” Richie asked between forced chuckles. He put on a Robin Leach Voice. “<em>Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous</em>?”</p><p>“No,” Eddie snapped. “But I wasn’t expecting a <em>hovel </em>either.”</p><p>“Ah, home sweet hovel,” Richie cooed, pointing out which tandem spot in the lot was his so Eddie could pull in and park.</p><p><em>Hovel</em> was definitely a little overdramatic. Casa de Tozier had central air and a dishwasher and he lived in it alone which was a significant upgrade from the apartment he’d had in his mid-20’s which he’d split with five other starry-eyed kids trying to make their way in LA. When he’d moved into this one-bedroom more than a decade before, he was still supplementing his comedy career by working the graveyard shift at a radio station and he’d just barely signed with his manager. Everything felt too new and impossible to trust. So he got someplace he could afford even if blew it big time – a decision he congratulated himself on at the time as being maybe one of the most responsible ones he’d ever made in his life.</p><p>And once his career (against <em>all</em> odds) started taking off, he spent a lot of time on the road or crashing at celebrity hotel parties or passed out in the back of clubs which meant it was so much<em> easier </em>to keep his simple little apartment on the West Side. Plus rent was cheap and moving fucking sucked so whatever.</p><p>Now, with Eddie following him up the exterior stairs to the second floor and bitching about the lack of proper security and questioning the permanent smell of curry leaking from the apartment two doors down, Richie screwed his ‘disaffected slob’ facade on tight.</p><p>“Don’t you have <em>money</em>,” Eddie bit out, completely without tact, the lovable little nut. “Your stupid fucking face springs up as a suggestion on <em>Netflix</em> for fucks sake.”</p><p>“Be real, Eds, are you <em>actually </em>surprised? Do I look like someone who knows what a mortgage is?”</p><p>Eddie visibly mulled that over. “I don’t know what I was expecting.”</p><p>The obvious answer was ‘<em>not this</em>,’ if the skeptical, faintly horrified look Eddie cast around Richie’s apartment once he’d stepped through the door meant what Richie thought it meant. Which was funny – hilariously funny – and also maybe mirrored a bit on Richie’s face considering he hadn’t seen his apartment since he’d woken up from his thirty-year-long amnesia-induced cognitive nap.</p><p>Honestly it wasn’t <em>that bad</em>. It was clean-ish. Steve hired a service (one that Richie probably paid too much to clean an apartment in Richie’s rent-bracket) specifically so that Richie would never come back to another swarm of flies over the dirty dishes in his sink or a mushy forgotten banana left out on the counter. It smelled like an apartment that hadn’t been stepped into for a while because it hadn’t - Richie had been mid-tour when Derry 2.0 struck – but it wasn’t a bad smell. Faintly dusty and plaster-y with a hint of laundry because the cleaners probably washed whatever he’d left on his floor. The trash had been taken out too and all the surfaces were wiped clean.</p><p>The carpet had definitely seen better days – Richie was a chronic spiller and memories of long ago beers and overturned pizza slices still haunted the area around the couch but you’d only notice those if you were <em>really </em>looking or if you were Eddie Kaspbrak and unfortunately…</p><p>“You <em>live like this</em>?” Eddie asked, voice shrill.</p><p>“I don’t have a lot of guests,” Richie said a little lamely.</p><p>“Obviously, where would you fucking put them? This has the square-footage of a postage stamp and I’m from <em>New York</em>.”</p><p>Richie shrugged.</p><p>“This is fucking sad, dude.”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, let’s all make fun of Richie, the sad clown. Throw a quarter at him and see if he’ll dance.” Richie did a bad little jig hoping Eddie would stop <em>staring </em>at him but it only made Eddie shift his weight and prop his fist up on his hip. “What do you want from me, Eds? I’ve slept more nights on hotel beds than the mattress in my bedroom. What would be the point in upgrading?”</p><p>At least that was how Richie felt when he started making enough money to warrant a financial advisor and she started dropping heavy hints about buying property. But anytime he sat down to look into the house listings recommended to him by Steve’s real-estate connection, he’d do so with a <em>big </em>glass of whiskey and proceed to get drunk enough that any mediary couldn’t, in good conscience, let him make a decision.</p><p>When he <em>haltingly and highly edited-ly </em>explained the situation to his therapist, she suggested he was still, in some ways, that 20-something guy who believed that his house of cards was ready to fall at the slightest hint of a breeze. Independently, Richie supplemented that idea with the whole ‘<em>I’m gay and if anyone ever finds out my career is kaput</em>’ thing and unfortunately that all made a lot sense.</p><p>Now, with his memories back, he wondered if it wasn’t <em>just</em> his constant expectation of imminent failure that kept him trapped in a shitty little apartment he avoided like the plague. Maybe it also had something to do with the Tozier house that had always been too small for how many kids were in it. His sisters <em>technically</em> shared the second bedroom growing up (though Becca spent most nights on the living room couch until Caroline moved out and Tiffany slept over at her friend’s places as often as she could) while Richie’s bed had been shoved under the basement stairs for lack of a better place to put it and to give his sisters the illusion of reprieve from their maniac little brother.</p><p>When he was a kid he hated it, being shoved underground with everyone else asleep on a different floor. When he got older, that turned into one of its major selling points; there was a fucking door with a set of stairs that spit you out on the side of the house down there so he didn’t even really need to <em>sneak</em> out when he bailed after dinner, which he did most nights. It helped that he trained his parents to never come down the stairs after he got <em>really </em>into masturbating at age fifteen, so if they called and he didn’t answer, they assumed he was ‘<em>busy</em>’ and let him keep his privacy.</p><p>Even though his folks weren’t terrible and his sisters were pretty decent when they were around, Richie had hated his house except for when the Losers were there. It never felt cramped when he was shoved up next to Eddie or Stan or Mike or all three at once, watching Mystery Science Theater and seeing who could burp the loudest. But when he was there alone – which he <em>often </em>was with both his parents working and his sisters away at college – the walls shrank in on him. He’d rather wander the Barrens alone or help Mike lug hay bales or sneak into Eddie’s room and squeeze in next to him in bed.</p><p>Trying not to devote too many brain cells to whatever Eddie was thinking that made him scowl/pout so damn hard, he clapped his hand against his thigh and boomed, “Let me give you the grand tour! This is the kitchen where I boil water for cup noodles and chill my beer.” He gestured to the wide open space directly in front of the cramped kitchen area. “This is the living room where I<em> eat</em> cup noodles and drink beer. And this,” he did his best one-armed impression of Vanna White in front of the bedroom door, “Is where I strive to discover new levels of self-depravity. Oh and the bathroom’s over there.” He pointed over his shoulder through his bedroom.</p><p>And now that he was looking at it all, he wondered again whether letting Eddie come out with him to California had been some horrible idea. Should he offer to put him up in a hotel? Should they <em>both </em>stay in a hotel? Would offering that be too <em>sexual </em>or was that just Richie’s dick ruining the party again?</p><p>He only had the one bed but he’d been planning on letting Eddie take it while he slept on the couch – that’s what he did most nights he couldn’t find somewhere else to pass out anyways, the TV flickering comfortably in the dark.</p><p>Eddie still hadn’t said anything – which might be a fucking record – and he was definitely seeing something that Richie probably really didn’t want him to see if Richie hoped to maintain the illusion of being a well-adjusted human person. But Richie <em>wasn’t </em>well-adjusted and he was <em>trying </em>to be a little more… open… and Eddie, precious Eddie who had spent their time flying to LA spilling all sorts of truths fucking <em>fearlessly</em> deserved that effort more than anyone.</p><p>Richie licked his lips and let his voice fall into something quieter, unmarred by a Voice or a bit or an act. “I don’t know. It felt…” Claustrophobic? Oppressive? <em>Comfortable</em> in the sickest way imaginable? “It felt like <em>home</em> even though I couldn’t remember why or what that meant. And even though <em>home </em>wasn’t a good feeling, it was familiar and easy and it satisfied –” Richie sighed. God he hated himself. “It satisfied <em>something.</em> Because <em>home </em>had a flavor that tied back to you and the Losers and everything else I missed and I guess that was better than nothing.”</p><p>Eddie’s mouth was open. Richie, briefly, snapped a little mental image of his visible pink tongue and his wet, parted lips and the shine to his dark eyes before he shook it all off with a smile that felt self-deprecating. “So yeah,” he finished lamely, blood pounding in his ears. “Pretty stupid, huh?” he asked when Eddie was quiet entirely too long.</p><p>“N-no,” Eddie’s voice broke and he cleared his throat. “Not stupid at all, Rich.”</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p> </p><p>Walking into the Tozier’s basement in Derry circa the late 80’s/early 90’s (which doubled as Richie’s bedroom) had been like walking into Richie’s head. The walls were plastered with posters stolen from the Aladdin and pictures torn out of magazines. Horror movie ads, girls in bikinis, Patrick Swayze. By the time Richie was fifteen, there was hardly a visible inch left of the wooden paneling that lined the walls.</p><p>There were more clothes on the floor than in his dresser and one of the armchairs circling the TV was heaped with an always-shifting-but-ever-present pile of junk that Eddie never once saw Richie touch and everyone mostly avoided.</p><p>Richie’s nightstand was more food wrappers and empty soda cans than actual real estate. Once Eddie had walked in through the basement door and gagged at the smell of rancid milk. Richie, looking horrifically nonplussed, brushed aside a collection of cellophane HoHo wrappers to reveal a bowl that probably used to contain cereal but was now growing its own ecosystem. </p><p>“Oh,” Richie had said, completely undisturbed and apparently nose-blind to the awful smell. “So <em>that’s </em>where that went.” Then he reached out for it and the sludge inside shifted grotesquely, a new awful sickly sweet wave of rot washing through the room. It was so reminiscent of the cistern Eddie gagged.</p><p>“Nope,” Eddie barked out, dropping the collar of his shirt which he’d been holding over his nose and lifting his hands to ward Richie and his bowl of filth away. “Nope.”</p><p>Eddie turned and walked away, all the way out the door heedless of Richie calling his name, all the way home, all the way to his bathroom where he took a furious, decontaminating shower, cussing Richie out violently as he scrubbed himself down.</p><p>He didn’t set foot in Richie’s basement for three months after that, even though he wanted to, even though he missed laying side by side on Richie’s gross sheets to read comic books shoulder to shoulder, even though Richie’s basement was his favorite reprieve from his mom and the summer heat and the world at large. He only relented when Richie’s begging hit a certain level of bad-humor that reeked a little of desperation and even Eddie felt bad. Richie confessed he did a deep clean, just to sweeten the deal, and shockingly that wasn’t a lie - Eddie had literally never seen the entirety of the basement floor before and Richie’s perpetually unmade bed actually smelled like laundry.</p><p>Still, occasionally he’d catch the tail end of Richie’s frantic cleaning if he swung by on short notice, Richie’s cheeks flushed a little pink as he carried a stack of dishes up the stairs, and Eddie would think to himself ‘<em>good</em>’ in a weird, self-righteously pleased sort of way. Because he <em>liked </em>being in Richie’s basement, liked being with <em>Richie</em>, surrounded by his smell and his poster collage and his specific brand of chaos. Seeing Richie - who didn’t give a single fuck about hygiene or cleanliness or basic human decency - scurry around all flushed trying to please Eddie made something weird in his chest expand in a way that was almost uncomfortable except that it wasn’t uncomfortable at all.</p><p>Richie’s apartment was so much like the basement he lived in when he was young Eddie had literally stood and gaped for a solid three minutes. It was cramped – the couch too big for the living room, a bookshelf stuffed with too many books and movies, a few game systems laying on the carpet in front of the TV because the TV stand wasn’t big enough to accommodate them.</p><p>The walls, at least, weren’t covered in pictures torn out from magazines. There were some familiar movie posters (<em>The Lost Boys</em>, <em>Bill and Ted</em>, <em>Evil Dead</em>) but thankfully they were framed and somewhat tastefully hung.</p><p>The worst thing was Eddie didn’t hate it. He <em>should </em>– he could see the stains on the carpet around the couch from where he was still hovering in the doorway and the snags in the window screen across the room – but it was so <em>Richie </em>he let out a long breath of relief. Flying across the country was insane but he wasn’t <em>alone</em> and he wasn’t <em>weak </em>and he wasn’t <em>friendless</em>, despite what his wife kept insisting. Richie and his shitty apartment were here to catch him… even if his couch looked like it might legitimately give him lice.</p><p>Eddie had been working his way up to some kind of insult – one that would probably be cruel and cut a little to close, the angry, twisted up child more alive in Eddie than ever – but Richie’s little, ‘<em>It felt like home even though I couldn’t remember why or what that meant</em>,’ blasted the air right out of Eddie’s lungs.</p><p>Had Richie heard Eddie talking to Myra? Did Richie <em>know </em>about Myra and about <em>him</em> and how he’d tried running away to be something different only to do a loop and wind up the same mild, sheltered boy he swore he’d never be again?</p><p>No probably not. Richie, the fucking idiot, lifted his good arm like he was trying to cross it over his chest and remembered too late he was wearing a sling – and that didn’t seem like the body language of a man who was trying to coyly insult Eddie’s life choices. He looked like he’d just said something he really wished he hadn’t.</p><p>Again, how he fuck had <em>Richie </em>grown up while Eddie felt so fucking <em>stuck</em>?</p><p>“I get it, Richie,” Eddie mumbled, still a little off balance anytime Richie said something that wasn’t a dick joke or a ‘your mom’ joke or any other kind of joke. “I – I think I did the same thing.”</p><p>Richie quirked his head curiously at that but before he could ask any questions, Eddie zeroed in on the sagging and stained couch dominating the living room. It had probably been one solid color at some point, maybe green, but now it was a muted, inconsistent shade closer to brown, the fabric worn down worse in the seat cushions.</p><p>“That couch looks like you picked it out of a dumpster.” Richie curled his lips into his mouth in response, eyes extra wide behind his glasses. “Jesus fuck, you <em>did </em>pick it out of a dumpster,” Eddie repeated flatly in horror, hating the little smile Richie was obviously struggling to subdue.</p><p>“<em>Technically </em>I picked it up off a street corner,” he admitted shamelessly. “But it was a really nice neighborhood so it’s <em>fine</em>.”</p><p>“Richie, what the fuck, aren’t you practically a celebrity? Don’t you have <em>money</em>?”</p><p>Richie had the audacity to shrug. “Not when I got that thing, I didn’t.”</p><p>“Oh god, how old is it?”</p><p>Richie’s eyes rolled up to the ceiling in thought. “Shit, um, maybe ten… fifteen-ish years?”</p><p>“On top of whatever previous fucking life it had?!”</p><p>Richie, annoyingly, didn’t look remotely ashamed of himself. Instead, his eyes squinted unevenly while he smiled.</p><p>“We are throwing it away, Richie. Right now.”              </p><p>“Aw but think of all the memories.”</p><p>“I am trying my hardest <em>not </em>to.”</p><p>Despite the fact that Eddie <em>knew</em> he was being neurotic, Richie put up with him surprisingly gracefully, Richie carrying down the couch cushions (one at a time so as not to strain his injuries) with a stupid, slightly dopey smile on his face. He even laughed deep from his belly when Eddie donned a pair of dish washing gloves unearthed from under the kitchen sink to lug the broken-down frame to the dumpster where it belonged.</p><p>And because Richie was a <em>bastard</em>, he didn’t bother pointing out that he only had the one bed until Eddie was yawning, still stuck on east coast time and feeling jet-lagged and stressed out and like his head had too many fucking thoughts in it.</p><p>“Well, I was gonna take the couch but since you <em>banished</em> it, I’ll just sleep on the floor,” Richie shrugged like he wasn’t <em>forty</em> and just out of the hospital besides. “Guess we get to pick out a new couch tomorrow.”</p><p>“You can’t sleep on the floor, asshole, we’ll fucking share.” Richie turned pink at that, which again, how was this man <em>forty</em>, before Eddie realized, “Wait, <em>please </em>tell me you didn’t get your mattress from the side of the road too.”</p><p>“Oh, no, I got that puppy at Costco,” Richie answered and something must have shown on Eddie’s face because Richie started laughing again. </p><p>“Do you have clean sheets, at least? I don’t want to swim in a sea of your fucking sexual escapades.”</p><p>“Ha, that’s generous, Eds,” Richie said, turning his stupid pink face away and padding over to a closet.</p><p>“What’s generous? Me clinging to the hope that you own more than one set of sheets?”</p><p>“<em>No</em>,” Richie said, mockingly emphatic, stretching his stupid tall body up and reaching a high shelf with his stupid long arms, flourishing a set of neatly folded dark blue sheets under Eddie’s nose. “That you think I’m having <em>sexual escapades</em>.” The last two words came out in a hoity-toity lisp.</p><p>“Why the fuck <em>wouldn’t </em>you be?” Eddie demanded, absolutely sure Richie was lying his ass off and immediately pissed about it. Why <em>wouldn’t </em>Richie be having sex? He was single. He was a celebrity. He was funny and weirdly charming and his face was mostly symmetrical except for when he smiled but that one eye that squinted a little more was upsettingly captivating so why <em>wouldn’t</em> he be having sex?</p><p>“Uh, cause look at me?” When Eddie only blinked (what the fuck was Eddie supposed to be looking for?), Richie tentatively continued, “And I wasn’t, like, <em>out</em> until a space-clown tried to skewer me <em>last week </em>so…” Richie shrugged with a flourish, the gesture less impressive with his arm still in a sling. “The only one getting down and dirty in my sheets is me and my five fingered friends.” He did apathetic jazz hands, extra pathetic since one hand was mostly hidden by the sling.</p><p>Eddie mulled that over while they worked together to strip the bed and remake it, Eddie doing 80% of the work because of Richie’s arm and his general uselessness. He mulled it over while he took a quick shower before bed and forced Richie to do the same (they’d just gotten off a <em>plane</em> and the sheets were clean, for fucks sake). He mulled it over while he very gently washed Richie’s scar at the bathroom sink (because Richie couldn’t reach it himself in the shower) and studiously checked it for signs of infection, feeling Richie’s eyes on him in the mirror when Eddie gave into curiosity and gently brushed his fingers down the line of Richie’s spine alongside the line of stitches.</p><p>Then they were both in bed, Richie on the right side against the wall because he was a heathen who still had his bed pushed into the corner and Eddie didn’t want to have to climb over Richie if he had to take a leak in the middle of the night.</p><p>Still, Eddie helped Richie settle in since he was condemned to the sling, leaning over him to shove a spare pillow half-under his back so he could lay without putting too much weight on his stitches. And if Richie was weirdly shy when he handed over his glasses and asked Eddie to put them on the nightstand for him, that wasn’t <em>endearing</em>, even if Eddie had kind of always liked how vulnerable Richie looked without the thick frames hiding his features. </p><p>Eddie was <em>still</em> mulling Richie’s words over when he clicked off the light and let his eyes adjust to the semi-dark, the faint glow of city streetlights filtering through the blinds providing just enough light to separate shadows.</p><p>Eddie knew his own relationship history was… complicated. And maybe somewhat horrifying. And there was definitely a lot of shit back-piled up that Eddie had to <em>unpack</em>. So okay yeah, he obviously wasn’t the best judge of <em>sexual shit </em>but Richie’s love life (or lack thereof) was of immediate and visceral interest to Eddie, maybe <em>because </em>Eddie was so fucking repressed.</p><p>Who had Richie slept with? What was it like? Was it as scheduled and perfunctory as the sex Eddie used to have with his wife or was it wild and unhinged and debauched? <em>And why did Eddie </em>need<em> to know</em>?</p><p>Eventually, never very good at keeping his questions to himself, his curiosity burbled out. “So you’re, like, gay, right?”</p><p>Richie’s head whipped to face him so fast that something inside of Richie’s body loudly cracked.</p><p>“<em>Jesus shit was that your fucking neck</em>?!” Eddie shoved himself upright and turned, catching Richie’s wide-eyed, slightly myopic stare morph into a grimace.</p><p>“Ow,” Richie groaned in answer, massaging his neck sheepishly and hissing. </p><p>“Holy shit, did you just give yourself whiplash? Don’t tell me we have to go to the hospital <em>again</em>.”</p><p>“I’m fine,” Richie grumbled, looking too embarrassed to be dying, so Eddie laid back down on his side, facing Richie. </p><p>After a minute passed (Eddie counted it out in his head) where Richie didn’t seem likely to volunteer an answer even though his eyes were open and staring at a ceiling he couldn’t possibly see, Eddie prompted, “So have you ever, you know... done gay stuff before?”</p><p>Richie brought his good hand up to his face, the mattress beneath him shaking, and Eddie nearly had a heart attack thinking he’d just made Richie cry (yeesh, how bad could his love life be?), but then the asshole snorted and Eddie deflated, realizing Richie was<em> giggling</em>. </p><p>“What the fuck are you laughing at?” Eddie demanded, grabbing Richie’s wrist and prying his hand away to find Richie’s glasses-less face all pinched up in a weird smile.</p><p>“Oh my god, this is so fucking surreal,” Richie coughed out between chuckles that sounded just a little manic.</p><p>“<em>What’s </em>surreal, asshole?”</p><p>“<em>This conversation</em>.”</p><p>“What part of this is a <em>conversation</em>, Rich?” Eddie insisted, shaking Richie’s arm by the grip he still had on his wrist. “You haven’t answered my question.”</p><p>“You mean your super invasive question about my sex life?”</p><p>“Oh don’t act so fucking prude. You spent our entire childhood talking about having sex with my mom.” And since when had anything been off limits between them? Eddie supposed twenty-something years might strain a relationship but he hated that more than anything in the world and wanted the old closeness back so bad he was willing to make Richie uncomfortable if it meant they could bridge some of that distance.</p><p>Richie snorted again. “I couldn’t help it Eds, the woman was insatiable!”</p><p>Eddie refused to dignify that with a response but Richie had no follow up, frowning absently at the ceiling. Impatient, Eddie leadingly started, “...So?”</p><p>“So, have I ever ‘done gay stuff’?” Richie sarcastically asked, soft hazel eyes finally darting to Eddie and Eddie tried, very hard, to make his face look open and neutral even though he was probably mostly a blurry blob to Richie without his glasses. Still, Richie squinted at him for a moment before sighing over-dramatically and gently pulling his wrist out of Eddie’s grasp so he could knead at his forehead. “Yeah, I’ve done gay stuff before, Eds.”</p><p>“Like what?”</p><p>“Seriously, man? You want me to fucking tell you dirty stories to put you to sleep?”</p><p>“I don’t know how to break this to you, Rich, but if your dirty stories put me to sleep, I think you’re doing sex wrong.”</p><p>“<em>Doing sex</em>,” Richie repeated incredulously before dissolving into uncontrollably, <em>genuine</em> laughter (Eddie could always tell the difference) and the old familiar bubble of <em>something </em>- pride or pleasure or giddiness - that always inflated Eddie’s chest when he teased out a true Richie Tozier Guffaw made him smirk automatically in response.</p><p>“So come on, asshole. Bore me to death.”</p><p><em>Finally </em>Richie turned on his side to face Eddie, his smile faintly fading. “I uh… I mean it’s been a while.”</p><p>“Since you got laid or since you've talked about getting laid?”</p><p>“Both, I guess? I mean I’ve <em>never</em> talked about it. Like, ew Eddie, you aren’t supposed to kiss and tell.”</p><p>“Wow that was not the tune you were singing when we were sixteen and Nora Caraway mysteriously decided it was a good idea to let you put your tongue down her throat.”</p><p>Richie laughed again. “Oh, that. I totally made that up.”</p><p>“<em>What</em>?!” Eddie hissed, voice shocking loud in the dark, but he was suddenly <em>furious</em>. He’d spent <em>hours</em> asking himself how <em>Richie </em>could have possibly convinced someone to let him put his mouth on them and that was time he was never going to get back. “You lying piece of shit!”</p><p>“Yeah, well, you had - and everyone else had already fucking done it. Kissed someone,” Richie grumbled, stupidly shy for a grown ass man talking about a fake kiss more than twenty years ago.</p><p>Eddie was unsurprised to find he couldn’t quite picture the girl who gave him <em>his</em> first kiss. She had brown hair, he vaguely remembered, and wore it in two braids. That was the entirety of his memory of the occasion, not because it had been wiped magically by the clown but because it had naturally faded. The kiss hadn’t left much of an impression.</p><p>He could <em>perfectly </em>picture Nora Caraway, though. Dark haired, slender, and short. Studious. She almost always carried around a book. Eddie had spent a lot of time looking at her and wondering what it was that Richie liked enough to want to kiss her.</p><p>Richie swallowed thickly, the sound loud in the dark. “And I guess I figured, you know, maybe if I thought hard enough about kissing a girl I’d stop - uh - thinking about kissing guys.”</p><p>“Wait, you knew you liked guys when you were <em>sixteen</em>?”</p><p>“Dude, I knew I liked guys when I was fucking <em>nine</em>.” </p><p>Eddie had to absorb that for a minute. Richie was frowning, his eyes glued to Eddie’s face, and Eddie knew he was trying to make out Eddie’s expression - a useless endeavor without his glasses - but Eddie didn’t want to hand them back. Richie was always a little more honest when he took them off, a little less likely to crack a joke and change the subject, something Eddie had learned a long time ago on nights spent very much like this, curled up and whispering to each other in the dark.</p><p>“What guys were you thinking about kissing?” Eddie asked, brow furrowing as he heard the words come out of his mouth with no input from his brain.</p><p>Richie looked just as surprised as Eddie and through the nighttime gloom, Eddie dimly watched Richie’s cheeks darken. “Oh, you know, Patrick Swayze. Rob Lowe. Corey Haim.”</p><p>His mind’s eye flashed to <em>The Lost Boys </em>poster in the living room. “Celebrities?” Eddie snorted, pissed all over again.</p><p>Stan was notably missing from that list even though Richie obviously had a crush on him. But then again, maybe his crush on Stan came later? Maybe he didn’t <em>realize </em>it was a crush until he was able to step back and get some adult perspective? Maybe it wasn’t until he realized he’d never get a chance to see Stan again that he found out how much that broke his heart?</p><p>“I mean, I guess when I was nine it was, like, the <em>idea</em> of guys. I don’t know. Who the fuck did you want to kiss when you were nine?”</p><p>“No one, dude. I wanted to ride bikes with you and Bill and Stan and watch cartoons or whatever. Why were you so horny?”</p><p>“I have no fucking clue. And I mean I wasn’t <em>horny</em> when I was nine, just to be clear. But I thought it might be nice to hold hands with a boy or something.”</p><p>“With Corey Haim?”</p><p>Richie’s cheeks darkened and his eyes dropped to somewhere around Eddie’s chin. “Yeah, with Corey Haim.”</p><p>Was Stan a Corey Haim type? The hair color wasn’t totally wrong…</p><p>“So when did you start holding hands with boys?”</p><p>Richie laughed but it was a horrible sound, self-deprecating and a little raw. “I - uh - haven’t. Not since, like, our fourth grade field trip to the zoo when Mrs. Joyce made you hold my hand cause I kept wandering off.”</p><p>Eddie blinked, the memory slotting into his brain like another coin dropped into a piggy bank. Eddie, almost ten years old and<em> panicking</em> because Richie wasn’t in the reptile house with the rest of their class, making a huge fuss about it because the adults in Derry never cared enough and even at ten Eddie knew that. One of the parent chaperones found Richie outside ambling around on his own, lost, and the teacher asked Eddie to hold his hand so he wouldn’t disappear again even though Eddie had already locked his fingers through Richie’s cause no fucking way was he letting him out of sight again, the idiot would wind up eaten by lions or some shit.</p><p>“<em>Technically </em>you held my hand during the whole blood-pact thing when we were thirteen,” Eddie couldn’t help but correct, the memory of Richie’s blood staining his cast visceral and somehow important.</p><p>“Dude, if there’s blood involved it doesn’t count.”</p><p>“And we held hands last week when we were doing that ritual.” If Eddie wanted, he could reach out and hold Richie’s hand right now. It would probably be nice. Richie had big hands, <em>sturdy</em> hands, and his grip in the cave had felt solid and grounding in a way Eddie hadn’t known a person’s touch could be.</p><p>“You know what, let’s just rule out any clown-adjacent hand holding, okay?”</p><p>“So you’ve really never…”</p><p>“Nope.” Whatever Eddie’s face was expressing for him must have been bad enough to be visible despite Richie’s horrible eyesight because Richie reached out and inexplicably pressed a finger right between Eddie’s eyebrows. “Don’t be so downy-frowny, Eds. Hand holding is <em>relationship </em>stuff and I’m not really relationship material.”</p><p>“Why the fuck not?” Eddie demanded, indignant.</p><p>“Until a week ago I was super in the closet. Like <em>way</em> the fuck crammed back there next to all the jeans you swear you’ll fit into again someday and the posters from your college dorm. No self-respecting man would date me and if they did, what? Would we hold hands inside with all the blinds closed and the doors locked, football on the TV to negate the gay?”</p><p>Suddenly it hit Eddie that hand-holding might have been Richie’s attempt at a euphemism and Eddie reeled. “So what, are you…” Eddie’s stomach did something funny – fuck, was that pasta <em>still </em>fucking with him? - but the possibility that Richie was… that he <em>hadn’t</em>... “Have you never…” </p><p>Richie looked stupidly blank until his eyes widened in sudden shock. “<em>I’ve had sex</em>,” he blurted, maybe a little louder than the almost whispered volume they’d been keeping their conversation at, and Eddie’s guts did a complicated series of flips before clenching.</p><p>“With a man?”</p><p>“A few men.” Richie shrugged. “And women.”</p><p>“Wait, why women?”</p><p>“Comedic integrity,” Richie answered completely flatly and Eddie snorted.</p><p>“So what, you’ve just had hookups?”</p><p>“Mostly, yeah.”</p><p>“Are you on Grindr or Tinder or whatever?” Eddie demanded, intensely curious, lining up a speech about venereal diseases even as he asked.</p><p>Richie laughed. “No, man, I’m fucking old. And like I said, it’s been a while.”</p><p>“How long?”</p><p>“Jesus Dr. K, I didn't know I made an appointment at the gynecologist.” Eddie kept quiet and eventually Richie filled the silence like he was ripping off a Band-Aid. “I don’t know, a few years? I’m pretty sure Obama was in office so not like… I haven’t really been keeping track. I didn’t know there’d be a quiz.”</p><p>Eddie quietly digested that. He knew – the same way everyone who’d stood in the line at the grocery store between 2002 and 2008 and stared vacantly at the line of gossip rags – that Richie had a much more complicated history with sex than he was letting on. The furious child in Eddie wanted to push, wanted to pry, wanted to dig out all the things Richie was keeping from him and inspect them from every angle, but he couldn’t find the magic combination of words to get him to spill - Eddie was still too out of practice and Richie had (despite everything) changed in small, unexpected ways from the boy Eddie knew like the back of his hand.</p><p>Then again, Eddie hadn’t known he was <em>gay </em>until he was shouting it at a monster-clown and apparently that had been going on <em>forever </em>so maybe Richie was surprisingly good at keeping secrets. The fucking asshole.</p><p>“What about you?” Richie’s soft voice thundered through the silence, jolting Eddie out of his thoughts.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“How's <em>your</em> hand holding habits?” Richie asked, a wry smirk twisting the corners of his mouth. It made him seem even more like a caricature drawing than he already did but it wasn’t entirely a bad look, not with his hair soft and fluffy from the shower and his cheek pressed to his pillow.</p><p>“I have a wife,” Eddie snapped immediately in answer, hating more than ever the reminder that somewhere out there, Myra existed and owned a part of him.</p><p>“Right, right, right,” Richie hummed, something tight around his eyes. “Yeah, that makes sense. You hold <em>her </em>hand.”</p><p>“Not really.” Richie didn’t visibly react to that so Eddie felt confident enough to continue, “Not ever, actually, if I can help it.”</p><p>“Um.” Richie blinked. “Okay.”</p><p>“Is that <em>weird</em>?” Eddie demanded with a sudden desperation he seemingly had no control over.</p><p>“Uhh – I don’t really think I’m qualified –”</p><p>“It is, isn’t it?” Yeah, obviously it was fucking weird. Eddie had known it all along. He didn’t need Richie’s faintly queasy expression to validate that. “I – Can we talk about something else?”</p><p>Richie, squinting furiously at him, licked his lips, and tried on a smile but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Eddie wanted to shrivel up into a raisin. “Oh, you’d rather go back to talking about how good I am at giving blow jobs?”</p><p>Eddie <em>actively </em>didn’t think about the weird jolt his stomach did at that, all his organs apparently determined to practice fucking gymnastics. “What, like it’s hard,” he bit back instead with false bravado, feeling his cheeks threaten to heat.</p><p>“It should be if you’re doing it right!” Richie crowed, the ghost of worry hanging out around his eyes. “Badum cha!”</p><p>Eddie rolled his eyes, very aware that he hadn’t gotten a blow job since college when a classmate he was partnered up with for a project invited Eddie back to his dorm room. After a few hours of quiet conversation that (in retrospect) bordered flirting, the guy dropped to his knees in front of Eddie’s chair and sucked him off without asking beforehand or talking about it afterwards.</p><p>It was maybe the best sexual experience of Eddie’s life, one he occasionally revisited in the shower to smooth along his routine self-care. Before Derry 2.0 and getting his childhood back and Richie’s public coming out, Eddie hadn’t thought much of the fact it was a <em>man </em>featuring most heavily in his fantasies. When it happened, Eddie would have been just as shocked and faintly disgusted and <em>utterly enraptured </em>if a woman had dropped to her knees in front of him, the very idea of sexuality so warped by his mother that Eddie could barely discern if he liked the feeling let alone who was doing it to him.</p><p>Myra, in an awful way, understood that and took it in stride. To her, sex was an expression of love and so they expressed that love like clockwork, scheduling their coupling in between Saturday breakfast and the three hours Eddie spent locked in his home office pretending to work. Eddie preferred that because it allowed him to emotionally and physically prepare himself – in his mind, the less surprises the better. And when, at some point, he lost the ability to keep interest in their routine, Myra was kind and understanding. So many of his mediations came with a loss of libido, she explained. And he was getting older. And he was <em>fragile</em>.</p><p>Now, watching Richie lick his lips and make shitty jokes about blow jobs, Eddie wondered if there hadn’t been a little something more to his lack of sex drive.</p><p>“Okay,” Richie said, smile pulling tight as Eddie scrunched up his forehead in thought. “Why don’t you tell me all about your life in The Big Apple.”</p><p>“Ugh, don’t call it that,” Eddie groaned.</p><p>“What’s it like?”</p><p>“You’ve been there, Richie. You shot that special at Radio City so I <em>know </em>you’ve been there at least once.” Oh. Oh fuck. There he was slipping up again. Richie was gonna rib him for the rest of his life if he ever found out about his private Netflix account or his frequent google searches featuring ‘<em>Richie Tozier</em>’ or his youtube history (although at least on youtube he had a few videos featuring Bill’s sparse public interviews, too).</p><p>“<em>Eddieeee</em>,” Richie whined breathlessly, kicking his legs around under the covers until his bare toes made contact with Eddie’s leg, nudging him so hard the whole bed started shaking. “You saw that special? Oh my god, <em>you are a fan</em>!”</p><p>“I <em>am not</em>,” he snapped back, frantically trying to pull the conversation away from his massive fuck up. “And New York is – I dunno, it’s whatever.”</p><p>Richie’s eyebrows were telling him they’d eventually circle back to the previous subject but he accepted Eddie’s out. He almost always did, when it mattered. “It’s ‘<em>whatever</em>’? Eddie, you’ve lived there for <em>twenty-two years </em>and all you’ve got to say is ‘<em>it’s whatever</em>’? ”</p><p>“Yeah, asshole, it’s whatever. It’s cramped and dirty and fucking loud. Everyone’s an asshole and public transportation is fucking <em>gross</em>.”</p><p>Richie blinked at Eddie slowly, a frown back on his face.</p><p>“I fucking <em>hate </em>it, Richie,” and oh. Eddie had never put that thought together in his head. He’d never <em>let </em>himself think it because he was never getting out so why make himself more miserable than he already was? “There’s always a million people <em>everywhere</em> and my neighbors are always fucking <em>screaming </em>at each other and there’s no space to fucking breathe. I thought it would be big enough to – I don’t know – get me out of my own head but it’s so fucking isolating, dude.”</p><p>Myra loved it. She had friends she saw every week and various clubs and classes to keep her busy and she liked feeling <em>cultured</em> and the envy of her family back home in North Carolina, living the big-city life.</p><p>Eddie didn’t feel cultured. He felt suffocated.</p><p>“Well, at least you got away from your mom,” Richie said with a forced brightness that didn’t suit him at all and Eddie sighed, knowing the truth would inevitably come up but not any more keen to talk about his mother than he was to talk about his wife.</p><p>“I didn’t,” Eddie admitted, feeling something horrible claw its way up his throat and threaten to choke him. “She moved to New York a little after I did.”</p><p>Richie’s eyes were massive even without his magnified glasses, his whole cartoonish face falling in despair. “<em>Oh fuck, Eds</em>…”</p><p>“It couldn’t have been more than a month into my first semester. I had an aunt who lived in the city and I got in touch with her because, you know…”</p><p>“Clown-magic memory wipe, right,” Richie supplied immediately, the words shaky.</p><p>“So I got in touch with my aunt and my aunt got in touch with my mom and then my mom moved to New York. And since I’d forgotten everything about Derry - since I’d forgotten all of you guys and forgotten <em>myself</em> - we just… picked up right where we left off when I was twelve and scared of everything and she had me convinced I had to do everything she told me because that’s what was best for me.”</p><p>And fuck, it had been so easy. He hadn’t even lived in the dorms a full semester. His mom was always so worried about break-ins and bed bugs and cohabitating in a building full of boys (which now was starting to raise <em>all sorts </em>of flags). At first he only spent weekends at his aunt’s house and then, occasionally, he'd sleep there during the week too if his mom called and convinced him to come over for dinner. And then that turned into a never ending, one-sided conversation. ‘<em>Wouldn’t it just be better to save your money and live here, Eddie? Don’t you want to make your poor mother happy? Don’t you </em>love me<em> Eddie-bear?’</em></p><p>Richie’s face was going through a complicated series of emotions but gut-wrenching sadness seemed to be at the forefront. Even though Eddie <em>knew </em>he was a disappointment for too many reasons to list, seeing Richie’s horror made the part of himself that always wanted to be better, wanted to be <em>brave</em> like his friends, flinch in fear. </p><p>But there was more, and self-destructively Eddie wanted it all out there at once, wanted to show Richie all of the worst of himself so if he was going to get mad at him, he’d do it <em>now </em>and Eddie wouldn’t have to keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.</p><p>“And even after she died, I found a woman to replace her. My wife.” </p><p>Falling in step behind Myra had been as easy as sleepwalking. He wasn’t sure he ever really asked her out or invited her to move in with him or even formally proposed. Those things just <em>happened</em>. She <em>made </em>them happen and he let her, Eddie was now starting to realize, steamrollering over his gentle brush offs when she temped at his first office job and insisted on eating lunch with him, then <em>making </em>his lunch, then coming over to make his dinner, then staying over to make sure he got to sleep at a responsible time. She had a way of talking him out of his concerns, of pushing and pushing and pushing until Eddie learned it was easier to lay down and let her walk over him.</p><p>And the Eddie that forgot It and forgot the Losers and forgot how to say ‘no’ went along with it.</p><p>“Oh god, it’s so fucked up, Rich,” Eddie admitted on the verge of slightly hysterical laugher. His life was a joke. <em>He </em>was a joke. And if he didn’t laugh, he’d start to cry. “You’d fucking tear me apart if you met her. Sonia Kaspbrak 2.0. You know she has me taking fourteen pills <em>a day</em>? I don’t even know what most of them are for.” Richie’s eyes were watering, his tears so much worse than laughter.</p><p>“I don’t even <em>like </em>her,” Eddie admitted in a harsh whisper, the words terrifying as they poured out his mouth. “I used to look at people in the office - people who were excited to go home to their spouse, who put up pictures of their wedding day, who talked about weekend plans and date nights and vacations – I’d look at them and think ‘<em>they’ve gotta be faking, right</em>?’ How fucking sick is that?”</p><p>“You’re not sick, Eds,” Richie said gently, his good hand clenching and unclenching where it rested near his shoulder and suddenly Eddie was full-tilt crying, tears blinding the sight of Richie’s stupid big hand and his stupid sad face, and his stupid cramped bedroom. Eddie covered his leaking eyes with a palm to block out the blurry sight. “And you’re not weak for finding comfort in the familiar when a literal alien wiped your fucking brain clean of all your emotional development. You’ve seen me and my apartment and my fucking <em>life</em>. It happened to all of us, Eddie. Arrested development.”</p><p>Eddie might have jumped at the gentle weight of Richie’s hand on his forearm if weren’t for how much he’d been hoping it would come.</p><p>After a long moment where Eddie tried to get himself under control by concentrating on the sturdy swipe of Richie’s big thumb over his wrist bone, Richie broke the silence. “You – uh – you want to hear something fucked up?” Richie asked, tentative and gentle.</p><p>“More fucked up than me marrying my mom?” Eddie peeked between his fingers and found Richie fighting hard to smile at Eddie’s pathetic attempt at a joke.</p><p>“Maybe? I dunno, you tell me.” He took a deep, bracing breath before he plowed on, “Before you left for New York, I thought <em>constantly</em> about asking if I could go with you, trying to figure out what combination of words would make you drag me along in your suitcase or something.”</p><p>That startled Eddie enough to lower his hand from his eyes, very much wanting to see what kind of face Richie was making. It didn’t disappoint, that too-young, too-vulnerable expression darkening his eyes and tightening his jaw. It was the same face he’d worn for weeks after Eddie got his acceptance letter, like he was <em>begging </em>Eddie for something but Eddie had never been able to guess what it was.</p><p>For a moment, the two versions of Richie overlaid each other in Eddie’s eyes; the young, painfully thin, shaggy-haired teenager and the surprisingly melancholy man he’d grown up to be.</p><p>Eddie sniffed disgustingly and then asked, “Why didn’t you?” with maybe more aggression than was fair.</p><p>But God, he’d thought about it too, about asking Richie to come to New York with him, about piling their stuff into Richie’s shitty station wagon and driving out of Derry together. He knew Richie's after high school plans were nebulously of the ‘<em>get the fuck out of Derry</em>’ variety but he talked a lot about Chicago while he worked two jobs to save up for his escape and Eddie figured his mind was set on it.</p><p>And it wasn't like Eddie could get an apartment with him to split the cost of city living. Eddie could only afford to live in New York because he had a decent scholarship and would be staying in a dorm mostly on NYU’s dime. He had a job lined up for him through the school and a little bit of money his dad had left specifically for him that he inherited once he'd turned eighteen but once he cut off his mother, he had to make that last until he could get a job and fend for himself.</p><p>So he couldn't ask Richie to rearrange his plans just because, what? Because Eddie would <em>miss</em> him? Looking back he desperately wished he’d brought it up.</p><p>“Richie,” Eddie repeated when Richie didn’t seem likely to answer even if Richie’s warm hand was still wrapped loosely around Eddie’s wrist. “<em>Why didn’t you</em>?”</p><p>Richie shrugged, his eyes sad. “Because you deserved a chance to get a break from the gangly fuck who couldn’t leave you alone.”</p><p>“Rich…”</p><p>“But I <em>still </em>tried to follow you to New York.”</p><p>“<em>What</em>?”</p><p>“Oh yeah, that’s how fucking <em>nutso </em>I was. Eighteen and reckless and so fucking stupid.” When Richie pulled his hand away to scrub at his own eyes, Eddie immediately missed the warmth of contact.</p><p>“What happened?” Eddie asked, wracking his brain for some bean-pole of a boy approaching him with that specific Richie-brand of intensity, maybe on the campus of NYU. Eddie had been brusque with his classmates the entirety of his education, feeling separate and distant and too caught up in running back and forth between campus and his aunt’s house, catering to his mom. He didn't have any time for friends or parties and according to his mom, his constitution was too weak for strenuous activity. Hell she thought class wore him out and eventually it did, her constant worries overpowering fact by planting the idea in his head.</p><p>But if Richie found him, he'd remember that, right?</p><p>“I got in my car thinking I’d just swing by, you know? I - I knew you’d probably forgotten me or whatever the fuck happened that the Losers just stopped… whatever… god, and believe me, more than once I’d worried it was something worse than that,” Richie tugged at his own hair, “like maybe everyone just <em>died </em>when they left Derry or some fucked up thing.”</p><p>“Richie,” Eddie urged, trying to get him back on track.</p><p>“Right. I got in my car and thought, ‘<em>Oh, I’ll just swing by and make sure Eddie’s still alive, it’s not </em>that <em>far out of the way to Chicago, it won’t be weird</em>.’ So I started driving and I was thinking about you and thinking about you and thinking about you and then <em>wham</em>. I blinked and you were <em>gone</em>. I was thinking about Chicago. Thinking about where I’d start looking for jobs. Thinking about how many months my saved up money would cover in rent.”</p><p>Eddie digested that breathlessly. He had known, when he’d filled out the application to NYU and packed up his belongings and pried himself free of his sobbing mother - he had <em>known </em>he was never going to look back at Derry, just like Bev and Stan and Ben and Bill had never once gotten in touch with them after they’d left.</p><p>And it had hurt - the thought of leaving Richie - but the part of him that had never learned not to be selfish was kind of <em>excited </em>about running away from everything. A life without his mom sounded like exactly the fresh start he’d always dreamed about.</p><p>And worse yet (fucking terrible even) he’d <em>known </em>it was going to devastate Richie, always so afraid of vanishing, of being left behind, of going missing and being forgotten. But Eddie <em>had</em> to go - he couldn’t stand another day in his mother’s house with her weaponized crying and sweaty clinging hands. He had to get away or he was going to <em>choke.</em></p><p>But never in a million years had Eddie imagined his brain would be wiped clean of <em>everything </em>about Derry. Sure, there was the possibility he’d outgrow his roots, but fucking <em>amnesia</em>? That was ridiculous! And how could he have guessed…</p><p>Except Richie knew. Richie had brought it up after Ben left and Eddie had shut that down the same way he used to <em>always </em>shut down talking about what happened that summer. If only he had listened.</p><p>“I still went through New York even though it was out of the way. I even drove past NYU.” Richie said in an airy cadence, like he was recalling a slightly confusing dream. “I had the address of your dorm written on my fucking arm, Eds. So even though I couldn’t remember why I’d put it there, I <em>knew </em>it was important. But it was too late.”</p><p>“Richie, I’m so sorry.”</p><p>“Don’t be sorry, Eds. <em>I’m</em> sorry. I - If I’d have known your mom was gonna stalk you all the way to college I’d have fucking stowed away in your luggage so we could chase her away.”</p><p>“But you <em>couldn’t </em>have known.”</p><p>“Yeah, I guess so.”</p><p>And it was strange, how different Richie’s version of protectiveness made Eddie feel <em>stronger </em>instead of weaker. Richie wanted to stand <em>beside </em>Eddie, help him when he asked for it, be there to hold him up when he needed support. Richie didn’t think Eddie was sick or small or pathetic. Richie thought he was <em>brave.</em></p><p>And <em>fuck </em>Eddie wanted to be brave.</p><p>“I – uh – Richie? I think I should get a divorce.”</p><p>Richie blinked once and then scrabbled up one handedly. For one second, Eddie thought Richie was tackling him, the weight of him leaning across his chest a bizarrely exciting feeling that warred back and forth between nostalgic and pleasantly new. But then Richie pulled away, cramming his glasses back onto his face, notably stabbing himself in the eye with the earpiece on the first attempt. Still propped up and faintly leaning over him, Richie blinked his watering eye open, his gaze so much more focused with his glasses back on.</p><p>“Say that again, Eds,” Richie demanded, his voice rough.</p><p>And maybe it was the way Richie was looking at him, the way he <em>kept </em>on looking at him, like maybe Eddie <em>wasn’t </em>fragile and invisible. Like maybe his thoughts and opinions mattered. Like maybe he could be a whole person too instead of a toy other people played with.</p><p>‘<em>You’re a badass</em>,’ Richie had said. ‘<em>I can be brave</em>,’ Eddie repeated his own mantra.</p><p>When Eddie spoke again, he felt the words all the way down to his soul. “I’m going to get a divorce.”</p><p>“<em>God</em>,” Richie barely breathed out, both eyes tearing up. “Shit, Eds, that’s incredible!”</p><p>Richie started to laugh, the sound of it breaking something loose inside of Eddie and he laughed too, terrified and excited and in shock. Richie’s good hand found its way to Eddie’s shoulder and Eddie gripped two fistfuls of Richie’s shirt as they curled towards one another, doubling over in giggles.</p><p>“I probably should get a therapist too,” Eddie added, still breathless with laughter. “They help, right? With all the…” Eddie couldn’t find a word that covered everything that was so obviously wrong with him but Richie was already nodding, eyes shining with pride.</p><p>“Yeah man, they help. They really do. Fuck yeah, Eds, let’s find you a therapist!”</p><p>“And I’m so sick of New York dude, I don’t want to go back,” Eddie admitted, another weight off his chest. Had he ever thought he had asthma? Was that tightness around his lungs just the vice of things he’d never let himself say or think?</p><p>“<em>Holy shit</em>,” Richie gasped, and Eddie felt a stab of panic.</p><p>“Is this crazy? Am I being crazy, Rich?”</p><p>Richie, taking a strong grip on the back of Eddie’s neck, tugged Eddie towards him and planted a loud kiss to his forehead. Eddie – after spending all day wondering what it would be like to be on the receiving end of Richie’s new penchant for kissing – was utterly unprepared to do anything about it except receive the affection and wonder idly at the heat of Richie’s lips.</p><p>“Absolutely!” Richie laughed in answer, pulling back, smiling brighter than the fucking sun. “You’ve always have been crazy, it’s incredible, don’t ever stop!”</p><p>“No seriously…”</p><p>“I’m totally serious, Eds,” Richie murmured, low and private and sincere. “If killing an alien fear demon and recovering from trauma-amnesia didn’t shake some shit lose in that adorable little noodle of yours, I’d be <em>more </em>concerned.”</p><p>“And you don’t –” Eddie scrambled, the whole convoluted process unraveling before him. Myra’s tears, talks with lawyers, angry calls from her family, alimony, court dates. He’d probably have to spend the duration of the divorce in New York (even though he <em>never </em>wanted to go back now that he was out) which meant he’d have to look for an apartment and what the fuck would he be able to afford mid-divorce in the most expensive city in America? There was just <em>so much</em>. “Do you really think I can do it?”</p><p>“Eddie, I fucking <em>know </em>you can.” It was the light in Richie’s magnified eyes that convinced Eddie more than anything. He <em>really </em>wanted to be the man Richie thought he could be. “And don’t forget, bud. You aren’t alone anymore.”</p><p><em>No,</em> Eddie thought, a little dazzled by Richie’s smile and his bright laugh. <em>We’re not alone anymore.</em></p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I promised long, rambling conversations and here we see that delivered... Not gonna lie, more to come.</p><p>Find me on @BadNotso</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter Eight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: Myra's control issues™, allusions to what my doctor once referred to as 'street drugs'</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Eddie and Richie spent most of that first night in Richie’s apartment lying side by side in the dark, faces lit up by their phone as they googled all the questions Eddie came up with, working out a plan of attack in regards to Eddie’s future divorce. Eddie had a short list of lawyers, a rough outline of the conversation he hoped to have with Myra, and a deluge of supportive, sympathetic texts from the group chat by the time the sky started brightening on the other side of the blinds.</p><p>Richie conked out first, right before the sound of traffic picked up outside the window, a pillow tucked under his sling. Eddie, feeling as exasperatedly fond (if not more so) as he did when he was a kid and Richie invited himself into Eddie’s bed, gently eased the glasses off his face and pulled the phone out of his hand, the screen still lit up to display the New York courts government website. He rolled to settle both objects on the nightstand, smiling privately to himself when Richie’s now empty hand found a grip in the hem of Eddie’s t-shirt, just like he did when they were young, the clingy bastard.</p><p>After another glance at Richie’s inelegant sleeping face (his mouth was slightly open and he was ever-so-faintly snoring which should have been annoying but somehow wasn’t), Eddie wiggled the gold band off his ring finger and set it on the nightstand too.</p><p>It was frankly shocking to realize how easy it was to cut and run. Two weeks ago, Eddie would have never dreamed of leaving his entire life behind, he thought he was the <em>rooted </em>sort of guy. He had a gym membership and a favorite bodega and a mortgage for fucks sake.</p><p>Despite that, there was very little in the townhouse in Chelsea that was <em>his</em>. Clothes. Some tax documents from the early 00’s before e-filing became the norm (though realistically he probably wouldn’t need those again). The box of Bill’s books tucked into the closet and the dresser in his bedroom that once belonged to his mother’s mother that he actually fucking hated but held onto out of some horrible obligation to her memory even though sentimentality was so foreign to him.</p><p>(For some reason, Eddie thought about Richie’s broken glasses <em>still</em> in his laptop case, the ones he'd moved into every new sweater he wore, his fingers endlessly seeking out the broken lens seemingly of their own accord.)</p><p>But it wasn’t entirely startling to realize his home of nearly eight years had nothing he couldn’t leave behind.</p><p>And Richie made it sound so easy. “If you don’t actually <em>want </em>anything from your old place, why go back?” he had asked when Eddie started worrying that Myra would corner him and talk him out of leaving if he set foot in that townhouse again. Which she would. She knew every horrible secret fear in him and Eddie was weak to her gentle suggestions.</p><p>Put in that perspective, there was nothing in New York worth risking his resolve. It wasn’t like Myra let him pick out the dishware or the furniture or the art hung on the walls. Even the townhouse itself was something <em>she’d </em>chosen – Eddie would have rather put up with a longer commute to get a house out in the suburbs where they wouldn’t have to live with shared walls and street parking.</p><p>Besides, when he’d packed for Derry, he’d shoved most of his wardrobe and his work laptop and all his toiletries (and useless medications) into his bags and bailed. And yeah, over-packing wasn’t out of character, but cutting a glance to the stack of luggage he had shoved into the corner of Richie’s cramped bedroom, he realized most of everything he’d need was in those bags. Now he couldn’t help but wonder if he’d packed that way on purpose, the same way he’d packed two suitcases and taken off to New York when he was eighteen.</p><p>Maybe he was doing that all over again. He stole another glance at Richie’s lax, slightly opened-mouthed sleeping face. If Eddie was running away again, he’d make sure to get it right this time.</p><p>Eddie had also nearly spiraled into an asthma/panic attack over the thought of facing Myra head on and asking for a divorce. “I can’t ask for a divorce <em>over the phone</em>,” Eddie had insisted, breathless and sweating through his t-shirt at three in the morning.</p><p>“Why not?” Richie asked so simply, the question almost felt like a slap across the face. “What would <em>really </em>change if you were standing in front of her when you told her?”</p><p><em>A lot</em> of things would be different. Without him <em>physically </em>there, she wouldn’t try to drag him to the hospital for one reason or another. She couldn’t barricade him in a room or force him to hold the conversation for hours, wearing him down little by little until he was so exhausted he’d say anything if meant he could get a fucking break. He could <em>hang up</em> a phone call if things got out of hand, which they were bound to do.</p><p>“There’s no right or wrong way to ask for a divorce,” Richie shrugged. “The only thing that matters is what works for you.”</p><p>And Eddie wasn’t entirely sure if that was true or if it was only more proof of how <em>selfish </em>he’d grown up to be, but Eddie liked the sound of prioritizing himself for once. No one had ever told him he could do that before. Well, no one but Richie a long long time ago.</p><p>Despite all the thoughts racing through Eddie’s head, once he turned back over and settled into the bed, he fell asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, exhaustion and comfortableness sucking him down into the safety of sleep, Richie’s heat a cozy, familiar presence that soothed Eddie down to his bones.</p><p>When Eddie woke up the next morning, he laid contentedly with his eyes closed, warm and <em>happy </em>in a way he’d thought he’d grown out of being able to feel, even as memories of his decision crept back into his consciousness. Weirdly, it was hard to feel anxious about anything with his knee pressed against Richie’s hairy leg, the contact bizarrely grounding. If he concentrated, he could hear Richie’s deep breathing, the mattress dipping faintly with his expanding chest. Watching Richie’s back rise and fall from across a hospital room and been meditative, but <em>feeling</em> it was downright hypnotizing.</p><p>It had to be almost noon. Eddie hadn’t slept in that late since… maybe not since he was a teenager. His mother panicked anytime he slept past 9 assuming he must be sick and Myra always claimed it was a waste of the day. Eddie rather liked the way the light filtering in through the blinds lit up the backs of his closed eyelids and there was a certain kind of peace knowing the world was in motion outside but here, he and Richie were content and quiet.</p><p>After a few long, calm minutes of waking up slowly, Eddie fluttered his eyes open. Richie, glasses already on and smudged half to death, was blinking at him from the other pillow with a barely restrained smile on his face.</p><p>“Eddie, Eds, I had an idea,” he whispered excitedly, and it was so much exactly the kind of thing Richie would start with the morning after a sleepover that for half a second, Eddie was sure he was fifteen again.</p><p>Then Richie said, “Move in with me,” and the illusion crumpled completely.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Groggily wondering, “Were you watching me sleep?” was Eddie’s adorable first reaction to Richie’s stupid/genius idea and Richie had to physically restrain himself from leaning forward to plant another kiss on his forehead. But Richie had to time those out, sketch up a schedule. One stolen breach of personal space per week. Maybe two. To keep things healthy. Yeah. <em>Healthy</em>.</p><p>Weirder yet, the question utterly lacked heat even though contextually Eddie had pretty much just asked, ‘<em>are you a giant fucking creep</em>?’</p><p>“Kinda,” Richie responded, answer to both text and subtext. “Did you know you keep talking, even when you're asleep?” </p><p>It was maybe the best thing Richie had ever seen or heard. Eddie didn’t talk in his sleep when he was a kid - the frequent murmurs or sighed exhalations or groans were an entirely new Adult Eddie discovery, one Richie was giddy to make. In fact, if anything, it debunked the secret fear that sometimes crept in - that whisper of ‘<em>what if he’s different from the boy you knew and loved</em>?’ threatening to fill Richie with dread.</p><p>The simple answer: Eddie <em>was </em>different. But Richie was already stupid crazy for the man he’d grown up to be too. </p><p>That fact was proven all over again when Eddie rubbed at his own face, his cheeks pinkening slightly around the edges, Richie’s heart fucking <em>racing </em>because the cutest man in the world was <em>in his bed</em>. “Yeah I know,” Eddie muttered into his palm. “It’s why me and Myra sleep -” Eddie paused, scowling before he corrected himself, “why we <em>slept </em>in separate beds. Did it wake you up?”</p><p>“What? No, if anything it was the best night of sleep I've ever had. Plus if I was physically capable of getting sick of your talking, it would have happened ages ago.”</p><p>“Alright.” Eddie processed that a little blearily. “Can we go back to the beginning?”</p><p>“Alrighty,” Richie agreed, happy to get back to the thing he wanted to discuss, the idea he’d woken up with, the one he’d wrestled back from vocalizing while he let Eddie slowly shift and stir himself awake. “Eds, move in with me.”</p><p>“This is a <em>hovel</em>, Richie,” Eddie answered immediately and Richie’s slightly insane laughter shook the bed.</p><p>“Not here. Or like, not for long at least. We can get a place. A <em>new </em>place. One that’s Eddie-approved.” Richie really hoped his smile was charming and convincing, not desperate or manic.</p><p>“Are you being serious?” Eddie asked and Richie couldn’t gauge whether his tone was incredulous-angry or curious-angry but Richie was willing to be an idiot for five minutes if the end result had even the slightest chance he'd wind up living with Eddie.</p><p>“One thousand percent serious. I hate this place. Let’s set it on fire.”</p><p>“<em>Richie</em> -”</p><p>“I’m joking. But not about living together. Unless, fuck, Eddie, I -” Had Eddie changed his mind about the divorce since he’d fallen asleep? That was possible – Richie knew too fucking well that ideas, much like Mogwai, shouldn’t be fed after midnight. Very carefully, Richie hedged, “Last night you said you were sick of New York and wanted to get out of there but, I mean, if you’ve changed your mind about <em>stuff</em>…”</p><p>God, Richie couldn’t even <em>think </em>it. And again, maybe a better friend would be asking Eddie to double check his convictions but Richie wasn’t a better friend and he <em>hated </em>the idea that Eddie had spent a lifetime being bossed around and made to second guess himself so Richie fundamentally refused to continue that circle. He was more of a ‘<em>yes and</em>’ type of guy anyways.</p><p>“I didn’t,” Eddie hurried to assert and Richie sighed, deflating into his pillow. “I didn’t, Rich. I’m sick of standing still. Time to move forward.”</p><p>“<em>Thank god</em>,” Richie breathed, relieved when Eddie huffed a painfully cute sleepy laugh into Richie’s pillow. Oh fuck, he was done for. “Okay, so I know you’ve got a lot on your plate or whatever but what if, instead of going back to New York during the divorce -” Richie <em>hated </em>that idea the second Eddie brought it up last night like it was the obvious and only solution, “- you stay in LA and live with me.” Richie waved his free hand in a little ‘<em>ta-da</em>’ gesture to really sell the idea.</p><p>Eddie blinked at Richie, clearly shell-shocked, but that wasn’t a <em>no</em> so Richie continued, “We can get an apartment together. Or a fucking house. Or shit, like, a yurt or whatever – I hear those are hip these days. I don’t care, whatever you want.”</p><p>Eddie blinked again and Richie tried<em> very</em> hard to give him time to think it over.</p><p>“I’m not living in a fucking <em>yurt</em>,” Eddie grumbled, rubbing at his face, Richie’s heart fucking <em>racing.</em> “Though I think I’ve seen tents bigger than this place…”</p><p>“Right, okay.”</p><p>“And I… I haven't even told Myra I want a divorce yet, Richie,” Eddie murmured and Richie wanted to sink through the mattress and die. “And I need to talk to work, figure out my options…”</p><p>“Totally. Obviously.” Richie was definitely coming on too strong, fuck what had he been thinking? Eddie had enough going on as it was. “Ah sorry, um can we just pretend -”</p><p>“We <em>do </em>have an LA office so maybe…”</p><p>“You - <em>what</em>?”</p><p>“And a house would be a lot right now, right? This is a terrible time to buy property, the markets all fucked up - splitting rent on an apartment might make more sense? Fuck, what'll my bank account look like after a divorce?”</p><p>“Wait, Eddie, are you <em>thinking</em> about it?”</p><p>Eddie, looking significantly more alert and - dare Richie think it - <em>excited</em> said, “Yeah I'm thinking about it, asshole, why, were you fucking with me?”</p><p>“No not at all!”</p><p>“Cause if you're fucking with me that's really messed up man!”</p><p>“I'm not! I swear!” Richie promised, holding his hand up in a ‘<em>don’t shoot me</em>’ pose, his blood <em>pounding </em>in his ears.</p><p>“Okay good.”</p><p>“Okay <em>great</em>.” Holy fuck, <em>be cool be cool be cool</em>. “You want some breakfast?”</p><p>“An apartment would be smarter for a lot of reasons,” Eddie said around a bite of Pop Tart a few minutes later. Then Eddie looked at the unevenly frosted rectangle in his hand and angrily muttered, “Fuck, I forgot how <em>good</em> these are,” and Richie spit crumbs across the kitchen counter when he laughed.</p><p>“But property is always a sound investment,” Eddie grumbled while he typed out a draft email to send to a lawyer on his phone while standing in line with Richie at the CVS, a basket full of first-aid supplies under his arm because Richie’s supply of gauze and antiseptic and whatever the fuck else hadn’t met Eddie’s standards (i.e. the only thing in Richie’s medicine cabinet had been expired Advil, heartburn medication, and half a sheet of LSD in a plastic sandwich baggie – Richie was pretty sure The Look Eddie gave him shaved off three years of his life and he wouldn’t trade the moment for anything in human history).</p><p>“I haven’t had a yard since I was a kid,” Eddie murmured wistfully to Richie’s stitched up wound when he checked it for infection and wiped it down with a clean wad of gauze, insisting Richie let it ‘breathe’ under his t-shirt if they weren’t doing anything more strenuous than lazing around. Richie clutched his shirt over his moobs and tried not to think too hard about how <em>close </em>they were or how he could feel Eddie’s eyes on his back like a line of fire.</p><p>“But we can’t split the price of a fuck<em>ing house</em>, I’ll be lucky if the divorce doesn’t bankrupt me. And buying a house isn’t like buying a fucking <em>video game</em>. Dividing the cost with a friend is a recipe for disaster,” Eddie bit out, a word document open on his laptop with an honest to god MLA formatted outline visible on the page, the two of them back in bed because Eddie had thrown out Richie’s admittedly gross couch the night before and the bed was the only comfortable place left to sit. Richie figured getting a new couch could wait until things had settled a bit, the obvious side benefit being they got to <em>share a bed </em>until then, something Eddie was just upsettingly, <em>wonderfully</em> nonchalant about.</p><p>“I can front the cash for a house,” Richie said easily, half-distracted, regretting it a moment later. He’d made a point to let Eddie work his ideas out himself, feeling like if he started talking, he’d be trying to <em>convince</em> Eddie to stay, too aware that they guy needed to make this decision for himself. Unfortunately Richie had fallen down a dog-video hole, the content just mind numbing enough to leave his Trashmouth open for business. Trying to brush the comment aside, he added, “My financial advisor keeps telling me I should stop living like a peasant and buy a house so…”</p><p>“You have a <em>financial advisor</em>?” Eddie asked incredulously and Richie rolled from his stomach to his side (a little more difficult with his arm still in the sling but at least his shoulder was hurting a lot less lately) to properly smirk at Eddie. </p><p>Eddie’s feet were tucked under Richie’s stomach, warming themselves and wiggling pointedly when Eddie bitched about Richie laying perpendicular on the bed. Richie had been there first - <em>Eddie </em>was the one who chose to plop down a little closer than Richie’s full-size bed required - which was a fact Richie left unmentioned because he didn’t want it to stop. Then again, Eddie had <em>always </em>plopped his ass down a little too close to Richie, sometimes practically in his lap, a fact that probably contributed heavily to Richie’s ongoing crush/undying love.</p><p>“Why do you have a financial advisor?” Eddie wondered aloud, digging his toes into Richie’s stomach. Richie barely resisted the instinct to grab them and tickle them or do something even more embarrassing like kiss the faintly hairy, weirdly elegant bony ridge of them. Why was every part of Eddie Kaspbrak fucking <em>perfect</em>?</p><p>“Because I have finances and almost no knowledge of what you’re supposed to do with them? Like, who’s on the ten dollar bill, Eds? Elon Musk? Jeff Bezos? Kermit the Frog?”</p><p>“Lin-Manuel Miranda,” Eddie said without missing a beat or looking up from his spreadsheet. Richie grinned, utterly smitten. “And I’m not gonna make you buy me a <em>house</em>, Richie, come on.”</p><p>“Just think about all the ice cream you bought me when we were kids.”</p><p>“Richie,” Eddie said flatly, his eyebrows beautifully stern. “If you don't understand the monetary difference between a couple ice cream cones and <em>a whole fucking house</em> I don't think I can explain it to you.”</p><p>“Okay, fair. But like, I don’t care? I think ‘<em>near death experience</em>’ gives me some leeway when it comes to strange life decisions and I’d rather use my money to make the people I lo<em>ve</em> –” he faintly choked on the word (<em>real smooth Tozier</em>) “- happy than sit on it until I die.”</p><p>Eddie glared at him over the top of his laptop, typing a few lines while staring at Richie with narrowed eyes (and why the fuck was that <em>sexy</em>? Was it because they were in a bed? Was it the eye contact? Or was Richie just a shamelessly into Eddie?) before he turned back to his screen.</p><p>After Richie had exhausted all the best dog videos he could find and pulled up a couple tabs for a few local animal shelters, Eddie took a deep shuddering breath and sat up straighter, rolling his head back and forth on his neck and eliciting a frankly impressive series of cracks.</p><p>“Okay, I’m ready to call her,” Eddie announced and Richie’s stomach squirmed in sympathy.</p><p>“Let me just –” Richie snapped his laptop closed and rolled over, intending to give Eddie some privacy, but Eddie gripped him hard around the forearm and held him back.</p><p>“I’m not kicking you out of your own room,” Eddie grit out, brows angry but eyes anxious and Richie was reminded, suddenly, of the way Eddie would always demand Richie make him a snack anytime he had to call his mom and ask permission to stay out longer. If it just so happened that the Tozier household phone was in the kitchen and that put Richie in Eddie’s immediate ten-foot radius, accidentally overhearing Eddie’s lies and pleading and careful omissions, Richie stopped thinking that was a coincidence by the third time it happened.</p><p>Calling up his wife from the other side of the country and asking for/demanding a divorce was a radically different ballpark than the ‘<em>Bill is helping me with my homework</em>’ conversations with Sonia Kaspbrak but Richie was utterly unequipped to deny Eddie anything he wanted so he settled back down and flipped his laptop open again, giving Eddie the same illusion of indifference as he had when he’d ambled around his kitchen throwing together microwave nachos.</p><p>“Kick me if I get annoying,” Richie told Eddie, thinking about safe words and easy outs and how miserable he’d feel if Eddie had to storm out of the apartment mid-life-changing chat just because Richie wasn’t the best at enforcing boundaries.</p><p>“You’re <em>always</em> annoying, asshole,” Eddie snapped back immediately but the slight hint of relief on his face was unarguable.</p><p>Richie tried to zero back in on the shelter homepage pulled up on his laptop, or if he couldn’t <em>entirely</em> focus on the page, at least he worked hard to give the impression that he was. Eddie didn’t want to be <em>watched</em> – Richie had made that mistake when he was twelve and Eddie still talked his mom into letting him stay an extra two hours but acted huffy for the rest of the afternoon. He just wanted the company. Wanted a distraction or two when things got bleak. Wanted to know he wasn’t alone.</p><p>Richie could manage that.</p><p>He was so devoted to his intensely-focused-on-the-internet thing he didn’t even realize Eddie had made the plunge and called her until he heard the indecipherable far-away tones of someone raising their voice on the other end of a phone. Unintentionally, Richie clenched his teeth so hard his jaw pulsed. He knew almost nothing about her but Richie was <em>pretty </em>sure he hated Eddie wife with a passion usually reserved for neo-Nazis and sex criminals.</p><p>As soon as the noise on the other end of the phone died down, Eddie tried to cut in, “Myra, I know, just –”</p><p>More shouting. If Richie hadn’t been sitting next to the ghost of Sonia Kaspbrak and tripping down Bad-Parenting Memory Lane, he’d be convinced Eddie’s wife was channeling her from the dead.</p><p>Richie had no idea what she was saying but Eddie was flagging under the barrage of words, eyes drifting away from the outline he’d spent so long on, shoulders bunching up tight as he curled in on himself. Richie, desperate to make it stop, clicked on the most pathetic looking cat on the shelter page and spun his computer towards Eddie.</p><p>With his eyebrows alone, Richie struggled to express ‘<em>is this cat for me</em>?’ but because Eddie was a fucking <em>expert </em>at deciphering Richie’s Looks, he understood it in a blink, his eyes unfogging as he took in the scraggly, one-eyed cat. “Myra, if you aren’t going to listen to me talk, why are you so hung up on whether I call or not?” he said into the phone and Richie carefully kept his face <em>exactly </em>the same as it was even if his eyes might have gotten a little bit moist.</p><p>Eddie cut his gaze back up from the one-eyed cat to Richie – combative again and comically horrified mouthing ‘<em>NO WAY</em>’ while he shook his head. Richie spun his computer back with a faint smile.</p><p>“Okay, I can see how that might be a problem –” Eddie murmured, voice going quiet. More faint noise on the other end.</p><p>“You <em>filled </em>my voicemailbox, Myra –” he sighed and rolled his eyes while Myra assumedly cut him off again.</p><p>He shook his head. “Then why did you get your mother involved –”</p><p>Richie couldn’t help it, he turned away from his screen to watch Eddie knead his forehead and run a hand down his face. When his thumb slid over his still healing scar he froze, still except for that one finger that traced the raised pink line where Henry Bowers had shoved a knife into his cheek. Eddie’s eyes darted up to meet Richie and Richie let every single good, strong, supportive thought he’d ever had about Eddie swarm his mind on the off chance Eddie could read them from his head.</p><p>“Myra,” Eddie said firmly, gaze still locked on Richie. “I want a divorce.”</p><p>An internal sea of Richies started ripping of their shirts and doing the wave, painted stomachs spelling out, ‘<em>F-U-C-K   Y-E-A-H   E-D-S-!</em>’ while fantasy-Eddie (maybe or maybe not dressed in short shorts, shut up) swung a bat and hit the ball right out of the park.</p><p>Richie was pretty sure his lips were turning up into a smile, Eddie’s eyes darting down to them instinctively, and Richie turned back to his laptop before he did something stupid like start crying.</p><p>“I’m not <em>happy </em>anymore, Myra,” Eddie said firmly, a brief pause before he repeated, “No. I’m not.” Another, even briefer pause. “You can’t <em>tell me </em>how I feel, Myra. They’re <em>my </em>feelings. If I say I’m not happy, then <em>I’m not happy</em>.”</p><p>Richie could hear the unmistakable sounds of crying on the other end of the phone, louder when Eddie pulled the phone away from his ear briefly, scrubbing at his face and looking more worn out than ever even though Richie had reference material aplenty from the whole murder-clown chase through Derry. Richie firmly resolved to never cry in Eddie’s presence again, remembering suddenly the way Sonia Kaspbrak had wailed and cried and clung onto Eddie, face covered in tears but eyes <em>cruel</em>, when Eddie dragged two bags out his front door so Richie could drive him to the Greyhound bus station the August after they graduated high school.</p><p>“<em>No</em>, Myra,” Eddie insisted and Richie frantically scrolled through the second animal shelter page he’d pulled up, willing the moisture in his eyes to be reabsorbed and searching for another distraction. “I’m not coming home, I don’t want to be <em>convinced </em>again.”</p><p>Again. Holy fuck. <em>Again</em>.</p><p>“I meant it that time too – I shouldn’t have let you –” Eddie flagged, a shaky sigh reverberating around the room and pounding Richie over the head.</p><p>Richie clicked frantically at a picture, spinning his laptop towards Eddie again.</p><p>This time it was a Pomeranian, painfully adorable, its head tilted in exactly the same quizzical way that It-monstrosity in the closet had before it twisted itself into something grotesque. Richie hadn’t felt one way or the other about Pomeranians before delving into It’s lair but he didn’t think he’d ever look at them the same way again.</p><p>Eddie, it seemed, felt similarly. His guarded look of despondency fell away, his mouth gaping open. ‘<em>Richie, no</em>,’ he mouthed and Richie stifled a slightly forced laugh, eyes still connected when Eddie bit out, “Anything you do to yourself would be nobody’s fault but your own,” harsh and determined. Richie was very glad he couldn’t hear the other side of the conversation or he was pretty sure he’d start smashing shit.</p><p>“No, I don’t want that –” Eddie spat, annoyed. Another pause.</p><p>“I’ve already gotten in touch with a lawyer –” A longer pause.</p><p>“I’m not doing this <em>to </em>you Myra. Our relationship is toxic and we shouldn’t have –” He sighed.</p><p>Richie, determined to one-up the Pomeranian, typed ‘<em>buy snakes LA</em>’ into google, pleased as fucking punch when he came across the Facebook page of a store called Scales N Tails. Barely a minute of scrolling later, he found something even better than a giant snake.</p><p>“<em>Eddie, hey Eds</em>,” he whispered, spinning his computer towards Eddie to show him a massive fucking tarantula sitting on a leaf in a terrarium. “<em>Yeah</em>?”</p><p>This time, Eddie actually pulled the phone away from his ear, pressing it to his shoulder to muffle his voice when he hissed, “<em>Haven’t you had enough of spiders, fucknut</em>?!”</p><p>The laugh Richie stifled into his comforter was genuine that time, and when he finally composed himself enough to look up, Eddie was almost smiling, phone pressed to his ear again but seemingly absorbed with watching Richie laugh himself red.</p><p>“I’ve gotta go,” Eddie said into the phone, abrupt and firm. “Take some time to think about what I’ve said.” <em>Even though she barely let you say anything at all</em>, Richie thought furiously in his head while Eddie pulled the phone from his ear and ended the call. He tapped at his phone a bit – maybe blocking her number? – and then tossed it aside before he grit out, “You are <em>not </em>fucking getting a tarantula, are you <em>actually insane</em>?!”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The very first therapy session Richie went to after he got back to LA went something like this:</p><p> </p><p class="scriptpg">INT. THERAPIST OFFICE - DAY</p><p class="scriptpg">RICHIE TOZIER (forty, slightly manic but <em>feeling good</em>) kicks the door in and enters. He’s a man on a mission.</p><p> </p><p class="scriptpg">RICHIE</p><p class="scriptpg">The man I’ve been in love with for</p><p class="scriptpg">the last 30-something years is in</p><p class="scriptpg">the market for a therapist, ideally</p><p class="scriptpg">one specializing in victims of</p><p class="scriptpg">Munchausen by proxy, you got</p><p class="scriptpg"> any referrals? Oh and by the way,</p><p class="scriptpg"> I’m super gay.</p><p> </p><p class="scriptpg">His THERAPIST (both younger and smarter than him – <em>unfair</em>) dissolves into tears of pride and pulls out a rolodex.</p><p> </p><p>Okay, that wasn’t exactly how it went down. Nobody has a fucking rolodex anymore, for one, but she did actually tear up a bit and give Richie a few professional referrals to hand off to Eddie. <em>And</em> she told Richie she was very proud of him with the kind of sincerity Richie still couldn’t handle which may or may not have immediately made Richie start blubbering. But what didn’t these days?</p><p>Turned out therapy worked a lot better when you actually talked about real stuff. Maybe not space-clown stuff (though some of that Richie still managed to wrangle into conversations by disguising them as nightmares) but after Derry 2.0 he could talk to her about Bowers and his posse of homophobes and growing up in a town where children died at a scary-alarming rate.</p><p>“Holy <em>fuck</em> Richie,” his therapist had gasped when he showed her the r/MissingDerry reddit page (which was mostly Mike’s pet project, a memorial of sorts for all the kids lost to the clown-cannibal who never got the mourning period they deserved because of bullshit memory magic). He’d never heard her swear before and something inside him breathed out a long sigh of relief. “No wonder you repressed your childhood.”</p><p>“<em>I know, right</em>?!” he’d agreed with her whole-heartedly, and suddenly talking to her was so much easier.</p><p>Steve, unfortunately, wasn’t so easily impressed with Richie’s personal choices. He still wanted Richie to do the talk show circuit, or at least release an official statement, but Richie was happy enough keeping up a presence on Twitter and ignoring the people who slipped into his comments with slurs Bowers and his cronies would have been proud of in 1989.</p><p>Richie managed to hold Steve off by making his doctor’s appointment seem like a bigger deal than it probably was, especially when a whole mess of doctors and nurses marveled over how quickly he had healed. While they murmured little noises of surprise amongst themselves, Richie exchanged A Look with Eddie and they wordlessly agreed ‘<em>magic</em>’. At least, for once in their fucking lives, it was working on their side, the scar on Eddie’s cheek impressively closed and diming from dark red to pink faster than was probably normal.</p><p>So with no reason not to, they wound up taking out his stitches - which was a strange sensation but worth the slight discomfort because Richie goaded Eddie into holding his hand for the process – and then he was recommended another week in the sling and some follow up x-rays and sent on his merry way.</p><p>The morning after his stitches were taken out, Eddie and Richie were crowded into the small bathroom observing their twice daily ritual of cleansing Richie’s wound/satisfying Eddie’s obsessive need to catalogue any changes lest Richie catch gangrene and die (god he loved the fucking gremlin). The wound was still a little tender, and the doctors thought it might be for a while. When Richie had first seen a picture of it, he’d been sure he’d be mostly stab wound for the rest of his life but the skin had seemingly reconnected itself, a process which was infuriatingly itchy.</p><p>Richie, who had just gotten out of the shower and elected to let Eddie clean and inspect his back wearing nothing but a towel around his waist (<em>elected </em>not being <em>exactly </em>the right word, more like Eddie shouted, ‘<em>Are you decent</em>,’ through the door to which Richie had answered, ‘<em>decently hung!</em>’ and then screamed somewhat shrilly when Eddie barged into the bathroom rolling his eyes). And, because his body hated him and because Eddie’s gentle strokes with a washcloth over Richie’s still healing skin was the closest he got to scratching the worst itch of his life, Richie was not concerned with keeping his moaning down, especially when the Eddie-shaped blob in the mirror started turning a little pink.</p><p>“<em>Oh my god, yes</em>,” he breathed, only half for show. Seriously, the entire half of his back dominated by his wound itched like a mother fucker and Eddie’s faint scrubbing was <em>divine</em>. “<em>Fuck, Eddie, harder, please!</em>”</p><p>Eddie smacked the side of Richie’s head, <em>not</em> very gently, and Richie burst out laughing.</p><p>“You want harder, asshole?” Eddie griped, grabbing a fist full of Richie’s hair and shoving his head forward with his handhold. Richie’s already <em>very </em>interested dick pulsed under the wet towel and Richie shuffled uncomfortably, swallowing the not-itch-related moan he very much felt crawling up his throat at the hair-pulling.</p><p>But, because he fucking <em>hated </em>himself and would do literally anything to rile Eddie up, he narrowed his eyes and breathed, “<em>Fuck me up, Eddie</em>,” absolutely <em>cackling </em>when Eddie unexpectedly reached around him and pinched his nipple fucking <em>hard</em>, like they were kids goofing off at the quarry again, or at least Richie figured that’s how Eddie saw it. Richie was the only pervert imaging all this shit about one room over, both of them significantly more horizontal on his bed.</p><p>He was too busy laughing to notice something was wrong until a voice called out, “I know you’re in here, Richie, I saw your fucking car,” and Eddie’s hand tightened on Richie’s shoulder.</p><p>In a rush, Richie jammed his fogged up glasses onto his face and called back, “What the fuck are you doing here, Steve?” very aware of Eddie’s fingers loosening fractionally.</p><p>“Steve? Your manager? How did he get in?” Eddie demanded, meeting Richie’s eyes in the mirror.</p><p>“He has a key,” Richie shrugged right as Steve stepped into the doorway of the bathroom, eyes locked on his phone. “It’s called a fucking doorbell, dude,” he said to Steve, who lifted his head, took in the scene (Richie in nothing but a towel, Eddie’s curious face peering over his shoulder) and groaned.</p><p>“You can’t be fucking serious, Rich,” Steve said with such disappointment Richie wanted to curl up and die.</p><p>“Excuse the fuck out you,” Eddie grit out and suddenly Richie was <em>very </em>aware that the meeting of two such Eddie-ish personalities could only end in the universe folding in on itself like piece of paper.</p><p>“Steve, this is Eddie,” Richie hurried to interrupt, gripping his towel at his hip with one hand and gesturing magnanimously to Eddie with the other in a way that made his bad shoulder twinge.</p><p>“Your ‘<em>friend</em>’, Eddie?” Steve deadpanned.</p><p>“Yeah, his fucking friend, asshole,” Eddie bit back, wiping at Richie’s back again with the washcloth in two more significantly rougher strokes before he patted Richie’s good shoulder and said, “There, you’re good.”</p><p>Richie padded out of his bathroom, Steve’s knowing eyes following him like fucking laser beams. It was <em>very </em>rewarding when Richie passed by and Steve almost immediately gagged at the sight of Richie’s back, the vindictive smile playing at Eddie’s mouth while he leaned against the bathroom doorframe with his arms crossed just too fucking good.</p><p>“Fucking <em>warn </em>a guy, jesus,” Steve bit out, and Richie, a consummate asshole, turned again to flash Steve his massive wound.</p><p>“What? I told you I’m out of commission.”</p><p>“I thought you were fucking exaggerating.”</p><p>“I was not.”</p><p>“Yeah, I fucking see that. Shit.” And because neither Steve nor Eddie grasped the concept of <em>privacy</em>, neither of them left the bedroom even though Richie was still naked except for his towel. Then again, they’d both seen worse than Richie’s hairy man-tits - Steve in particular - so it was entirely unsurprising when Steve continued his conversation the exact same way he would if they were meeting up in Starbucks or whether Richie were wasted and covered in his own vomit. “You’ve been avoiding me all week but we’ve gotta figure out how we’re gonna handle this. I’ve got both <em>People </em>magazine and <em>Us Weekly</em> interested in interviews,” Steve started spouting, back to tapping at his phone. And <em>wow </em>this was a conversation Richie <em>really </em>didn’t want to be having practically bare ass naked.</p><p>“Don’t make me do some kitschy fucking tell-all,” Richie groaned sitting at the edge of his bed.</p><p>“You’d be a <em>cover story</em>, Richie. Can’t you see what that could do for your career?”</p><p>And yeah, okay, two weeks ago Richie would be thrilled if a magazine wanted to put him on the cover, even if it was for ODing at a party. Seriously. Ticket sales went up like <em>crazy </em>after he nearly killed himself in Vegas in 2009. But Richie had cancelled all his upcoming shows and now lived with a certain amount of dread at the thought of someone recognizing him – that poor fucking kid from Derry that he’d screamed at before the little guy had been fucking <em>eaten </em>still clinging to the back of his mind – and for some reason all the screen time and attention felt <em>abrasive </em>instead of bolstering like it used to.</p><p>“I can’t do it, man,” Richie said to Eddie’s ridiculous stack of luggage dominating the corner of his bedroom. “Don’t make me do it, I just<em> can’t</em>.”</p><p>And then, because he still hadn’t figured out how to regulate his emotions, in fact, the day before he’d had to excuse himself to the bathroom <em>three times </em>to keep himself from tearing up in front of Eddie because he’d promised not to submit Eddie to any more crying than he fucking had to, Richie’s vision went murky with moisture.</p><p>Steve sighed and, even though Richie was focused on the blurry pile of Eddie’s bags, he knew Steve was seeing everything the way Steve <em>always </em>saw everything.</p><p>“So what, you’re done?” he asked and Richie fought off a flinch. “That’s it? You’re out of the business?”</p><p>“<em>No</em>,” Richie grumbled, feeling fucking twelve inches tall. He <em>really </em>regretted sending all Steve’s calls to voicemail – maybe if he’d picked one up, he could have had this conversation over the phone instead of half-naked and in front of <em>Eddie</em> of all fucking people.</p><p>“People want to know what the fuck is going on with you. <em>I </em>want to know what the fuck is going on with you.”</p><p>“Me fucking too,” Richie mumbled, rolling his eyes, and when he met Steve’s gaze, he was surprised by the look of… concern?... or something close to it furrowing his forehead. The look was almost perfectly mirrored on Eddie’s face three feet to the right.</p><p>“You’re still going to your therapist, right?” Steve asked, tucking his phone into his pocket.</p><p>“Yeah,” Richie sighed.</p><p>“And you’re not hooked on pain pills or something stupid, right?”</p><p>“<em>No</em>,” Richie answered, rolling his eyes again. And he wasn’t. The temptation wasn’t even there, really. The pain from his shoulder and back had numbed down to something manageable without much more than an occasional Aspirin, the dull twinges a reminder that he hadn’t dreamed everything that happened in Derry. That Eddie was alive. That his memories were real. And that was somehow more important than being high or emotionally dead to the world.</p><p>Steve raked his eyes over Richie from wet hair to bare toes. “Okay,” Steve eventually exhaled. His arms were crossed but he didn’t seem too mad. “You’re pretty fucked up, huh?”</p><p>Eddie snorted angrily but Richie readily agreed, “<em>Super </em>fucked up. But I’m working on it.”</p><p>Steve sighed a long breath out his nose before wandering out of the bedroom, Richie standing to follow. “I’m giving you a week to figure out what we do from here,” Steve said, crossing the living room in five quick steps. “What the fuck happened to your couch? You know what, never mind. <em>One week</em>, Richie,” he threw over his shoulder before he let himself out, the door slamming closed before he’d finished his vague threat.</p><p>“So <em>that’s Steve</em>,” Richie said somewhat lamely to Eddie who was lingering in the bedroom doorway.</p><p>“Real bleeding heart, huh?” Eddie huffed, pulling open Richie’s closet and scoffing – legitimately <em>scoffing </em>– at the shirts he found there.</p><p>“Don’t pay him to be a bleeding heart, Eds,” Richie said, confused but tickled by Eddie angrily swiping through Richie’s collection of fun button ups.</p><p>“Do you pay him to be an asshole?”</p><p>“He’s not an <em>asshole</em>. Honestly that was maybe the Steve equivalent of deeply concerned.” Eddie shot him A Look. “I’m feeling the love, don’t worry.”</p><p>“So what’s the deal then?” Eddie asked, pulling out a short-sleeved shirt covered in hamburgers, scowling at it <em>fiercely</em>, and then holding it out for Richie to slide into. And on what planet was Richie going to turn down <em>that </em>slice of domesticity? Even if his palms were fucking <em>sweating</em>. And Eddie picking out his clothes was <em>doing </em>things for him – <em>to </em>him – to his <em>dick</em> – but whatever. He grimaced a little as he lifted his bad arm, Eddie meeting him halfway with the shirt sleeve and pulling it up his arms. “Why don’t you want to do an interview?”</p><p>“Cause it’s fucking phony, Eds,” Richie answered, enjoying a little too much the way Eddie unnecessarily spent a bit of time straightening the way the shirt hung on his shoulders.</p><p>“Where do you get off talking about being phony? You don’t even write your own material,” Eddie said, sweeping past Richie and plunking himself on the edge of the bed. Which like, okay, Richie had <em>kind of </em>hoped he’d help with the buttons too but beggars can’t be choosers or whatever. He’d just have to imagine that part later when he had a chance to do the lovesick version of jerking off which was still jerking off but substituted tears for lube and resulted in a lot of physical and emotional chafing.</p><p>“Ouch, Spaghetti.” Richie was really hoping to leave the conversation there, digging out one of his less pathetic pair of boxer briefs and shimmying them on under his towel because his dick had thickened up a bit and the idea of even comically flashing his ass to Eddie in the privacy of his bedroom with his bed <em>right there and looking at him </em>was too close to something else he really wanted to do. Once his undies were safely in place, he dropped the towel and started fumbling with the buttons of his shirt.</p><p>“So what do you mean, phony?” Eddie asked, because <em>of course </em>he couldn’t leave it the fuck alone, when had Eddie <em>ever </em>left anything the fuck alone?</p><p>“I mean it would <em>suck</em>, you know? I’d sit down with some fucking trendy journalist at a pre-ordained café – one specifically picked out to be quirky enough to be <em>on brand </em>for me or whatever – and then I’d spill my guts and they’d hum and haw in all the right places and I’d think ‘<em>oh, okay, ripping myself open for a stranger went okay-er than I thought it would</em>’,” Richie wrangled into a pair of jeans he found on the floor. “But a week later, the article would come out and it would be all, ‘<em>Richie Tozier, notorious party boy, thinks being gay excuses him from a life of bad choices</em>.’”</p><p>That’s essentially what happened when he sat down for <em>People </em>magazine in the aughts after his second stay in rehab once he was semi-famous enough to warrant a bit of attention for driving his car off a cliff along the PCH. The interviewer seemed sympathetic and he probably wasn’t a bad guy or anything but at the end of the day, what they were doing was a business transaction disguised as a bio-piece. It got him in the headlines, sure, but it fucking <em>stung </em>reading some asshat describe every micro-movement of his while he drank a beer and ate a burger as some thesaurusized word for <em>irresponsible</em>. And if Richie wanted a laundry list of his crimes, he’d call up the LAPD, thanks very fucking much.</p><p>“And they’d bring up all the fucking dirt on me which, like, there’s a lot of,” Eddie nodded in a little ‘<em>well yeah</em>’ kind of way and Richie groaned, “– oh good, so you know about that too. Awesome<em>.</em> And just, I can’t handle that right now, you know? That insincerity?”</p><p>And who fucking wanted to hear about his sad-sack piece of shit life and his late-in-life gay crisis anyways? How much of a story was there in a gay white man living in LA finally peeking his head out of the fucking closet?</p><p>Once his shirt was buttoned, Eddie stood and helped him slip his arm into the sling, the gesture way too fucking tender for how <em>raw </em>Richie was feeling but he wasn’t going to cry. Nope. No way.</p><p>“So what are you gonna tell <em>Steve</em>,” Eddie mumbled, adjusting the strap at Richie’s back, and there was something very cute about the way he said ‘<em>Steve</em>’ like – if Richie really wanted to let himself fantasize – he was the tiniest bit jealous.</p><p>“I have no fucking clue.”</p><p>When Eddie was done, he patted Richie once on the bicep and stepped back, crossing his arms over his chest and furrowing his brow thoughtfully. Then, because he was the best thing to ever happen to Richie, Eddie solved all his problems by almost flippantly hedging, “Have you thought about doing an interview for a podcast?”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>It was funny how Eddie never really gave him a firm ‘<em>yes</em>’ on the moving in together thing. Instead, Richie gleaned it from Eddie’s abrupt announcement of, “We’re pretty close to Bill here, huh,” one morning while they ambled around the grocery store together, the cart littered with weird shit like oat milk and fruit.</p><p>Eddie – as it turned out – had no idea how to cook which was adorable and a point of contention because it was impossible not to tease him about it. Plus, Richie had very few Adult Skills and he was pretty happy the one he <em>did </em>have let him watch Eddie’s face morph from surprise to enjoyment to furious annoyance every time he ate the first bite of whatever Richie cooked for him. Eddie, as usual, hated that Richie was better at something than he was and hovered at his elbow while he prepped meals, asking questions and trying to help. It was kind of Richie’s favorite part of the day which was saying something because <em>most </em>of every day spent with Eddie was his favorite part of the day.</p><p>“When he’s not on a shoot, sure,” Richie mumbled, absent-mindedly debating between Doritos and potato chips. “Pretty sure Ben mentioned a dock at Marina Del Rey, too.”</p><p>“Bev thinks Mike might wind up over here eventually as well,” Eddie added, snatching the plain potato chips Richie had just put in the cart and trading them out for salt and vinegar because <em>of course</em> his preferred flavor was bitter and tart. If it was possible to die of being in love, Richie would be six feet under.</p><p>“Oh I bet,” Richie hummed, thinking of the long, tearful hug and forehead press Mike and Bill had shared at the airport. Richie had only <em>barely </em>held back the ‘<em>just kiss already!</em>’ because if he started harassing the others on their obvious crushes, he was opening himself up to some real brutal retaliation.</p><p>Eddie nodded, seemingly to himself. “We should start looking at places. I’m pretty sure your neighbor jerks off with the window open on purpose so the sooner we get the fuck out of there, the better.”</p><p>Richie froze where he was leading them down the bread aisle, Eddie trailing in his wake and pushing the cart, apparently immersed in reading the ingredient list on the back of a pack of hotdog buns.</p><p>Eddie had said ‘<em>we</em>’ like it was obvious, like he and Richie were a <em>unit</em>, like they were a fucking <em>couple</em>. He had also just consented to living with Richie which meant this – grocery shopping together and cooking dinners together and falling asleep watching Netflix together - didn’t need to have an end date. Richie didn’t have to keep telling himself ‘<em>appreciate this you sack of shit, cause it might be all you ever get</em>.’</p><p>Richie swallowed down the tears that fought to bead up in his eyes. “Who? Mr. Masterson? Oh <em>for sure</em> he’s got some kind of exhibitionism kink. Better to keep your eyes on the stairs when you pass his window,” Richie said lightly, internally shrieking in happiness.</p><p>Eddie was going to <em>stay</em>. With <em>him</em>. They were going to <em>live together</em>. That was only <em>exactly </em>what Richie had always wanted and now it was happening.</p><p>Sure, that decision seemed to be weighted heavily by the other Losers proximity but Richie had never much cared about the means, only the gains.</p><p>After he made up his mind, Eddie settled into California life with more grace than Richie expected. Apparently he Risk Analyzed well enough that his company was happy to transfer him to the LA branch, even going so far as letting him work from home (i.e. <em>Richie’s apartment</em> – cue more internal screaming) while he settled into his new city and got the ball rolling on his divorce. They even promised him two remote days a week once he returned to working in the office because Eddie not-so-subtly hinted another, bigger firm had offered him more money to swap companies.</p><p>Richie had sprung a boner overhearing <em>that </em>particular conversation because yeah, bossy Eddie <em>did things </em>to Richie’s guts. And his heart. <em>And his dick</em>. Jesus he was fucked.</p><p>As it turned out, Eddie’s wardrobe was exactly as Mormon Radioshack employee-y as Richie had guessed it would be, the clean-cut look all the more obvious when he was surrounded by the lax, diverse attire befitting the West Side neighborhood they occasionally strolled around while Richie readjusted to walking without fear of tearing open his back. Then again, it wasn’t like Richie was hoping Eddie would pick up the stained-tank-top-and-ratty-boxers look Mr. Masterson had perfected, but on a drive down the PCH, Eddie pointed out a surprisingly jacked grey-haired man wearing pink spandex shorts with rainbow suspenders, roller skates, and nothing else. Fantasy Eddie had been sporting that look <em>often </em>while Richie stole jerk off time whenever he could.</p><p>Richie’s life took on a quiet sort of happiness he hadn’t even known was possible. They shared Richie’s bed with the comfortableness they had when they were teenagers (which was to say Richie periodically found himself wracked with sexual tension while Eddie lived his life obliviously). Some nights they laid in the dark talking for hours, other times they both climbed in and passed out immediately. The evening Richie tucked in early, stomach filled with enough Indian carry-out to put him in a coma, he nearly cried himself to sleep when Eddie, after asking if the light would bother Richie, followed him under the covers instead of staying at the kitchen table while he finished his work, Richie fading away to the sound of Eddie’s aggressive tapping and quiet grumbles.</p><p>Most mornings they woke up touching in some small innocent way. Eddie’s shirt clenched in Richie’s fist. Their knees brushing under the covers. Eddie’s hand on his shoulder. Richie catalogued every moment in his memory bank, determined to hold onto every little delicious nugget of affection. Eddie might not <em>love </em>him but he definitely loved him as a friend and that was way better than any casual fuck Richie’d ever had. He’d take an elbow graze with Eddie over getting blown by a dude with a tongue piercing and maybe that said more about Richie’s very specific Eddie-centric obsession than anything else but whatever.</p><p>The nightmares still hit Richie most nights and Richie lurched into wakefulness with an apology for leaving Eddie behind on the tip of his tongue but hearing Eddie’s sleep-talking voice, even when Richie was fully asleep, soothed away some of the jagged edges of agony. And jesus he fucking hated those dreams. Eddie eviscerated. Eddie dying. Eddie alone in the dark. Richie no longer shouted himself awake, <em>thank fuck</em>, or if he did it wasn’t any louder than Eddie’s quiet mumbling, but opening his eyes to find Eddie drooling onto the pillow next to him was enough to calm his racing heart.</p><p>So every day they slept together and woke up together, sometimes starting conversations in the dark of night and picking them up again the next morning. It was like being a kid again. It was like being <em>married</em>, probably, not that Richie would know anything about that. His longest relationship was with a woman he liked but couldn’t love and they hadn’t even made it to the stage of living together. She probably only put up with him for the almost-year they were together because he was predominantly away on tour for eight of those ten months.</p><p>But this thing with Eddie felt <em>real</em>. Which was probably really fucking dangerous when it came to Richie’s heart and how he would handle himself once Eddie started doing the rebound dating thing almost mandatory for post-divorcees but Richie was an expert at being a miserable sap and self-medicating so he’d deal with that when the time came. Getting the happiness he was afforded <em>now </em>was worth the future pain.</p><p>After a week and another set of x-rays, he was given the all clear to go without the sling, Eddie not-at-all discreetly marveling over Derry Hospital’s ability to adequately reset his shoulder. It still hurt every once in a while, particularly when he woke up or after his doctor mandated stretches (overseen by Dr. K, of course) and he suspected he would never get his full range of motion back but it wasn’t like he was pitching for the Dodgers. He could still lift it high enough to slot it over Eddie’s shoulders and he was back to using his dominant hand for masturbating so literally he had no complaints.</p><p>Eddie – being the Type-A that he was – needed a project outside of coordinating a divorce on the other side of the country and it turned out finding a new place for the two of them to live in was exactly the distraction he wanted. However the first roadblock with that problem was the apartment vs. house debate.</p><p>Richie, who honestly didn’t care where they lived as long as it was together and who was <em>also</em> constantly terrified of somehow accidentally saying the wrong set of words and reminding Eddie that he was, in fact, unbearable company, tried not to weigh in.</p><p>“Richie, what the fuck do you mean you <em>don’t</em> <em>care</em>?” Eddie bit out at him, the both of them smushed together at Richie’s bachelor kitchen table which had barely enough room for two adult humans (he was <em>fairly </em>sure he’d stolen it from outside a café on a drunken dare and when he told Eddie that, the weasel had been visibly torn between disappointment and disbelief), bumping knees and elbows as they split a pepperoni pizza.</p><p>Richie shrugged. He really <em>didn’t </em>care. He and Eddie could move into a tent under a bridge and he’d be happy – though Eddie decidedly <em>would not be</em>.</p><p>“Richie I’m not –” Eddie took a deep breath, clearly trying not to blow a blood vessel in his brain. When he started talking again, it was haltingly. “I don’t want to decide this <em>for </em>you. We’re doing this <em>together</em>, right?” Richie’s heart skipped a beat. <em>Together</em>. God he was such a sap. “You’re the one who said – all that stuff about <em>my mom</em> – and with Myra –”</p><p>Eddie had called up one of the recommended therapists and gone to see him exactly once for an hour, borrowing Richie’s car to drive to his office and storming back into the apartment afterwards, marching to the bedroom, and face-planting onto the bed so hard the frame smashed against the wall. Richie had sat down next to him and noisily eaten crackers until Eddie snapped and lost his mind about crumbs, much calmer once he’d vented some of his aggression.</p><p>Eddie had another appointment for the next week.</p><p>That being said, Richie didn’t want to poke the beast and he <em>knew </em>what it cost Eddie to compare himself to his mother so Richie offered, “We could make a list?” a memory blinking into the space in his brain. After Pennywise Part I, Eddie used to get stuck sometimes, so unused to making his own decisions (<em>thanks Mrs. K.</em>) that even small choices could rile him up until he was a pacing, rambling mess. It was Stan’s solution – of fucking <em>course </em>it was Stan the Man with an answer, calm as could fucking be and so fucking <em>thoughtful</em> – holding out a piece of paper and a pen with that flat, expectant adult look on his young face.</p><p>‘<em>Think it out, Eddie</em>,’ he’d say, half-annoyed and reluctantly endeared, and Eddie would grumpily obey.</p><p>Richie missed Stan so much it hurt.</p><p>“A list,” Eddie echoed back, a little distant as the memories bloomed behind his eyes too.</p><p>“Yeah,” Richie said, wiping pizza grease off on his jeans and standing up to rummage in the junk drawer in his kitchen, unearthing the mini spiral notebook he used to keep in his pocket back when he wrote his own material. He hadn’t jotted down any joke ideas in at least a decade and at some point swapping the notebook out between pants started feeling like another reminder about exactly how much of a failure he was. So he dropped it in the drawer and stopped thinking about it.</p><p>The first few pages had a few scribbled lines on them, almost illegible even though it was his own handwriting. He flipped to an unmarked page and held it out to Eddie.</p><p>“Pros and cons, you know?”</p><p>Eddie blinked away the fog of reminiscing and gave him a calculating stare he couldn’t even <em>begin </em>to make sense of. Then he said, “Like Stan used to make me do,” haltingly, leaving a long drag of expectant silence afterwards, the Look he was shooting Richie a complete fucking mystery even as Richie nodded. But eventually Eddie tidily wiped his own hands off on a napkin and accepted the notebook Richie held out to him.</p><p>Setting it between their two plates, he scrawled ‘<em>Apartment</em>’ and ‘<em>House</em>’ at the top of the page in handwriting only slightly neater than it had been when he was eighteen. Richie wanted desperately to kiss the pink line of Eddie’s cheek scar but if he was going to do that, he’d need a better cover story than ‘<em>I saw your awful handwriting and couldn’t contain myself</em>’ if he didn’t want to totally give himself away. With a quick, aggressive slash, Eddie divided the page with a line and glowered down at the paper.</p><p>Richie watched, maybe a little deliriously happy, as Eddie wrote:</p><p>
  <em>Apartment</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Pro: more affordable</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Pro: can split rent</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Con: no equity</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Con: NEIGHBORS SUCK</em>
</p><p>
  <em>House</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Con: more expensive</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Con: Richie would be my sugar daddy (gross)</em>
</p><p>Richie nearly blew soda out his nose when he watched Eddie’s sturdy hands spell out ‘<em>sugar daddy</em>’ completely un-ironically. “Oh, Eddie, I’d <em>love </em>to be your sugar daddy,” he simpered, hopefully in a convincing Voice that didn’t give away how much Richie was really <em>really </em>not opposed to spending all his money on Eddie. Eddie was probably a slightly safer addiction than, say, cocaine. His therapist might not agree with that but whatever.</p><p>“Fuck you. If anyone’s the daddy around here, I am. You didn’t even know how to load the dishwasher until I fucking taught you.” And oh. Richie might like that <em>even</em> <em>better</em>. He opened his mouth to make a lewd comment but Eddie beat him to it. “Also, if you ever call me ‘daddy’, I will murder you in your sleep.”</p><p>“Yes, sir,” Richie said around a smirk instead, trying not to flounder under the <em>very </em>intense stare Eddie was absolutely flaying him with and probably failing miserably.</p><p>Eddie turned back to listing things under the ‘<em>House</em>’ category.</p><p>
  <em>Pro: good investment</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Pro: comes with a lawn and <span class="u">privacy</span></em>
</p><p>Richie eyes locked onto the scribbled ‘<em>lawn</em>’ and he realized, suddenly, that he wasn’t nearly as impartial as he’d thought.</p><p>If they had a backyard, they could get a <em>hammock</em> and if they had a hammock, maybe Eddie would crawl into it with Richie when he felt like he wasn’t getting enough attention or when Richie made a point to hog it just to <em>attract</em> Eddie’s attention (which Richie had <em>absolutely </em>done on purpose, every fucking time they were down in that clubhouse together). And if Eddie climbed into a hammock with Richie <em>now</em>, Richie would have yet another excuse to press their bodies together, to lay his hand on Eddie’s knee to steady them so they didn’t tip over, to press his legs against Eddie’s hips to better imagine what it might feel like to be wrapped around them…</p><p>Richie snatched the pen out of Eddie’s hand and wrote, ‘<em>Pro: someone else has to fix the shit we break</em>’ under the ‘<em>Apartment</em>’ list, determined to redeem himself for <em>vividly </em>imagining Eddie’s hips, maybe naked, maybe back in those fucking tiny running shorts, maybe even in Eddie’s hideous khakis because Richie was <em>just that fucking horny </em>for the little lunatic.</p><p>Eddie, his lips pinched together tight, ripped the pen back and scribbled, ‘<em>Pro: repair-people exist, dumbshit</em>’ under the ‘<em>House</em>’ list and Richie nearly cried in relief.</p><p>For the next week, the notebook burned a hole in Richie’s back pocket for a different reason than the ‘<em>you’re a failure</em>’ it used to so spectacularly scream. Eddie would add to it (re: dictate bossily to Richie while Richie pretended to be annoyed) at random times throughout their day, seemingly whenever a thought struck him.</p><p>Wandering around a used car lot, Eddie muttered, “Having a private garage would be nice,” while he critically eyed some kind of SUV that Richie could barely discern from the other ten SUVs they’d looked at that day. “You know, if we get a house.”</p><p>“Your old place didn’t have one?” Richie asked, pulling out the notebook on autopilot and writing ‘<em>Pro: private garage for Eddie’s fancy new car</em>’ under ‘<em>House</em>’.</p><p>“It was a townhouse in Chelsea so <em>no</em>. Street parking was a bitch and a half.”</p><p>“<em>But you’re in the land of the automobile now, buddy-boy</em>,” Richie reminded him in a transatlantic Voice, eyeing the salesman who Eddie had spurned off <em>three times </em>with the power of his withering glare alone. Richie was more smitten than ever. “Almost every apartment building comes with a lot.”</p><p>Then, almost on autopilot, Richie flipped to the back of his notebook, well away from the apartment/house list to scribble ‘<em>Eddie vs. the too invested car salesman</em>’ because there was a joke there – maybe even a tight five – Eddie had sparred with <em>multiple </em>salesmen since he’d moved to California and had yet to buy a car so there was a lot of material to work with. Then Richie blinked and his own handwriting in abject shock. It wasn’t a <em>joke </em>– not yet – but that was exactly the sort of shit he used to make notes of back when he wrote his own shit.</p><p>“Yeah, where you have to park tandem like fucking <em>animals</em>,” Eddie snapped back without any real heat, jerking Richie from his shocked staring. “No fucking way I’m gonna move your car every morning cause you’re coming in late from doing a show and I’m heading out early for the office.”</p><p>“Eddie my love, who the fuck said I’d be doing shows?”</p><p>Eddie stopped his semi-crouched circling of the SUV, straightened, and leveled Richie with his patented concerned-angry scowl. “Rich, why <em>wouldn’t </em>you be doing shows?”</p><p>“Uhh - because I’d need <em>material</em>?” He pointedly flipped the notebook closed and shoved it back into his pocket, determined to ignore the way it seared through his jeans. “And someplace willing to let me walk out on stage? And people stupid enough to pay to listen to me?”</p><p>A muscle in Eddie’s cheek pulsed as he tensed his jaw, his concerned-angry scowl leaning further and further away from angry.</p><p>“Don’t you still want to be a comedian?” Eddie asked, voice unbearably sincere, and Richie reminded himself of his vow not to cry in front of Eddie. “I mean, you’re way funnier than whatever the fuck <em>Tony </em>was writing for you.” For a second, Richie reeled (in a childish my-crush-pays-attention-to-me sort of way) over the fact that Eddie had committed the name Tony to memory even though he couldn’t have heard it more than once.</p><p>“Oh Eds, did you just admit you think I’m funny?” Richie joked, desperately trying to change the subject.</p><p>“Don’t change the fucking subject,” Eddie reprimanded immediately and Richie mouthed ‘<em>fuck’</em> behind the hand he scrubbed across his face.</p><p>“Eddie, I don’t think this is really a Carmax-conversation.” If he couldn’t change the subject, maybe he could delay it to another time or, ideally, possibly forever. Yeah, forever sounded <em>super </em>good.</p><p>Eddie, seemingly remembering they were surrounded by used cars and a <em>very persistent </em>salesman who once again had crept into their periphery, nodded - one hard jerk of his head – before he went back to trying to look up under the SUV’s skirt and Richie sagged against a sedan in relief.</p><p>“I still don’t want to have to tandem park with you,” Eddie said, and Richie’s itching fingers pulled the notebook back out to write, ‘<em>Con: Eddie’s a bitch about tandem parking</em>’ under the ‘<em>Apartments</em>’ list. “And having our own pool <em>would </em>be nice.”</p><p>“Gotta work on that tan, Eds!” Richied smirked, scribbling ‘<em>Pro: skinny-dipping</em>’ under the heading ‘<em>House</em>’, happily rerouting the horrible directions of his thoughts to what Adult Eddie’s skin would look like dripping with water and reflecting the golden light of sunset. Back when they were kids, Richie had <em>tried </em>not to stare at Eddie at the quarry but that was much easier in theory than in practice. Fuck, did Eddie still have that line of freckles on his lower back? Freckles don’t just <em>go away </em>right? Oh man, Richie was going to think about those freckles specifically next time he had a minute alone.</p><p>Richie was so busy happily watching Eddie argue with the salesman who he eventually hailed and thinking about Eddie’s trio of freckles and counting how many more pros were in the ‘<em>House</em>’ list than the ‘<em>Apartment</em>’ list, that he didn’t even realize Eddie hadn’t put Richie’s Mustang (which Eddie still insisted on driving though Richie was pretty sure it had more to with him secretly loving Richie’s car than Richie’s healing back and shoulder) into drive until they’d been sitting there at least a minute.</p><p>Once Richie glanced up, probably with some slack-jawed gape of confusion, Eddie demanded, “So is it a parked-outside-a-Carmax conversation, Rich?” turned as much as he could be in the driver’s seat to face Richie. Richie, who had thought he was in the clear for <em>at least </em>an hour, not-so-subtly eyed the door lever. The locks clicked. Richie audibly swallowed, eyes a little too wide when he nervously stole a peek at Eddie, absolutely <em>mortified </em>by how much his dick had thickened at that fucking <em>Power Move</em>. Wow. But now <em>so </em>wasn’t the time.</p><p>Eddie, adorably, was blushing, finger still on the lock button, face scrunched up in a cringe. “I didn’t –” he stammered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Sorry. That was fucked up.”</p><p>“It’s okay, Eds,” Richie said, at a loss for what else to say besides, ‘<em>fuck me right now please</em>’, his voice uneven when he blurted out, “I know you think I have brain damage but I <em>can</em> unlock a door.”</p><p>“You don’t <em>have </em>to talk about it,” Eddie said haltingly, looking like the words were being pulled out of his mouth like teeth and even though Richie would rather <em>die </em>than think about what Eddie was asking him to think about, he didn’t want to spit on Eddie’s olive branch.</p><p>After a moment where Richie intensely struggled not to deflect with a bad joke, he finally asked, “How did you know you wanted to keep analyzing risks? After the whole, you know -” he mimed a stabby-stabby motion with Psycho sounds effects and then did what might have been an impression of It or might have a cat hissing. Richie wasn’t totally sure. Eddie spent a long moment staring at Richie, maybe trying to read his mind – that was about how intense the eye contact was at least – before he put the car into drive and pulled out onto the road.</p><p>Eddie answered easily, “I like the work. Numbers and statistics and math. They make sense. They’re predictable and solid and real. The part of me that finds that satisfying didn’t change with the whole –” he gestured vaguely with his hand.</p><p>Richie made more stabby sound effects.</p><p>“Right.” Eddie cut him a small smile. “Some aspects of my work life have changed since then. I don’t feel compelled to spend as much time working as I used to. That was a technique I used to avoid Myra, I realize now. And I think I hate my old coworkers a little less (though maybe that’s because I’m on the other side of the country and don’t have to fucking look at them anymore). But a few of them reached out with shockingly nice emails and I kind of wonder if I hated them because they were… happy. And I wasn’t. And I didn’t understand that.”</p><p>Richie, refusing to blink in case any gathered moisture in his eyes decided to fall, reached across the center console and laid a hand on Eddie’s shoulder. And because he couldn’t help himself, Richie asked, “But you’re happy now?”</p><p>Eddie smiled and Richie wanted to live in the dimple puckering his cheek, right next to the red line of his scar. “Yeah, Rich. I’m happy now.” Eddie tilted his head, brown eyes glowing. Richie was so utterly fucked. “I’d be happier if we had a couch and kitchen table that wasn’t <em>contraband </em>and we weren’t living in a fucking <em>cupboard</em> but –”</p><p>“I want a house,” Richie blurted, surprising himself. Eddie cut him A Look but he hadn’t stopped smiling. If anything, his smile morphed from quietly pleased to the Eddie-version of uninhibited joy which was still a small grin but <em>fuck </em>it was beautiful. At the sight of it, Richie’s internal voice started chanting ‘<em>hammock hammock hammock</em>.’ “I want a house with a yard and a pool and enough rooms so that all the Losers can stay with us when they visit. Fuck Bill’s bougie Malibu mansion – <em>we </em>should have the party house.”</p><p>“Yeah, fuck Bill!” Eddie laughed, the sound loud and bright like it had been ripped out of him. “We’ll get a <em>way </em>better house than that book nerd.”</p><p>And Richie’s stupid heart – as <em>always </em>– couldn’t help but skip a beat over the ‘<em>we</em>’.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sorry for the delay in this chapter's update, last week was an emotional wash thanks to the hellscape that is the american political atmosphere BUT now I'm (hopefully) back on track! Thanks for reading!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter Nine</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: nebulous homophobia, Stan's suicide letter, mentions of weaponized crying, non-consensual drug use, threatening suicide as a manipulation tactic, and mentions of Bev's abusive husband and father</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Early October in California was hot enough that even at the beach, Eddie didn’t need more than a sweater and his East Coast blood sang in confusion. Fuck, Richie was wearing sandals. In <em>October</em>. What the fuck?</p><p>They spent a lazy afternoon wandering up and down the beach, people watching (and in Richie’s case, making up voices and inner monologues for strangers) and trying to recall old episodes of Baywatch, arguing over whether Jamie Lee Curtis was in the show (she wasn’t, Eddie was right, it was Alexandra Paul – they could have looked it up on their phones right away but for some reason they bickered about it for half an hour instead). Eventually Richie talked Eddie into getting on the Ferris wheel and even though Richie kept trying to rock their cart just to torture Eddie, he couldn’t remember ever laughing so hard or having so much fun in the last twenty years.</p><p>That could be because the mountainous coast was gorgeous and scenic in a way that was so utterly different than the shoreline in New York. Or maybe it was because Eddie still hadn’t come to terms with the fact that this wasn’t some strange vacation but instead the start of a new life. But most likely it was because Richie’s back was healing nicely enough that he could finally amble around with the animated exaggerated-ness Eddie had missed from his stiff, faintly pained posture and, before that, the hunched over, hands-in-pockets pose he’d favored so much while they hunted down the clown in Derry.</p><p>When he was a kid, Richie would swing his arms around all over the place, whacking the Losers in the face accidentally all the fucking time, and (even though taking a forearm to the nose twice a day was <em>annoying</em>) those broad gestures were so much more suited to him than the weird curled-in-on-himself thing that Eddie had absolutely hated looking at as they wandered around Derry on a kill-mission.</p><p>Richie was recognized twice – once by a stoner-looking kid on a bike who shouted out, “<em>Tozier</em>!” as he peddled past (Richie called back ‘<em>Fuck off!</em>’ in a very jovial way and the bike-kid cheered) and once by a man a little older than them who eyed Eddie warily and asked if what they were saying about Richie was true.</p><p>“Yeah man,” Richie mumbled, hands back in his pockets, Eddie’s blood pressure <em>skyrocketing</em>.</p><p>“Well I hope you figure out your shit,” the guy said with a tone Eddie <em>really </em>didn’t like and then he still had the fucking nerve to ask for a selfie. Richie complied, his smile stiff as a fucking board, Eddie <em>shaking </em>with anger, and then they speed-walked the fuck away, Richie only pulling his hands out of his pockets again once Eddie shoved him onto an oversized swing set and they competed to see who could swing higher.</p><p>When Richie (who still only had the one set of keys because Eddie refused to let them live in his crappy apartment long enough to need a duplicate) stalled at the mailbox, Eddie stopped with him, absently picking the obvious ads out of Richie’s hands so he could throw them out. He was still thinking fondly of the dip’n’dots they’d shared on the pier (a staple of their childhood Eddie hadn’t thought about in <em>decades</em>) so he didn’t notice something was wrong until Richie choked on a sob.</p><p>“<em>Eddie</em> –” he gasped, utterly wrecked, and Eddie’s heart tried to jump out of his mouth in an immediate attempt to comfort him, like lobbing organs at him would fucking help the situation.</p><p>Richie had torn into an envelope, a single sheet of paper covered in tidy handwriting shaking in his hand. Half to see better what was on the page and half to stop Richie’s trembling, Eddie covered Richie’s hand with his own, pressing his face against Richie’s shoulder to get a better view.</p><p>‘<em>Dear Losers</em>,’ Eddie made out at the top of the page before realization clicked in and he was pretty sure the noise that burbled out of him wasn’t much different that Richie’s sob.</p><p>It was just as awful and devastating as Eddie would have expected from Stan’s fucking suicide note (because that’s what it was, Stan, you can’t beat around the bush on a technicality) and even though Eddie wanted to tear his streaming eyes away to spare himself the heartbreak, he couldn’t stop reading the only words he’d ever get from the man Stan grew up to be.</p><p>‘<em>I lived my whole life afraid</em>,’ his letter read.</p><p>‘<em>Me too, Stan</em>,’ he thought, gripping Richie’s hand tighter and bringing his other arm up to hug him around the middle when Richie gave one violent shudder and Eddie genuinely worried he was about to collapse. When the curtains of the apartment nearest the mailboxes flicked open for the third consecutive time, probably trying to determine why semi-famous comedian Richie Tozier was having a meltdown right in front of their locked gate and whether they should post a picture of it on Twitter, Eddie guided Richie towards his apartment.</p><p>Almost as soon as they were behind their door, Eddie very gently eased Stan’s letter out of Richie’s hand and pulled him in for a hug, cradling the back of his neck and forcing the giant idiot to bend slightly to tuck his face into Eddie’s shoulder.</p><p>“Hey, come here big guy,” he murmured, a little surprised to hear the consoling tone of his own voice. He had never been good at comforting anyone – he distinctly remembered patting Myra’s back extremely awkwardly when she’d gotten the call about her father and the soul-cutting look she’d shot him afterwards – but Richie sank into his embrace like a weight.</p><p>When Richie’s arms wrapped around Eddie <em>tight</em>, pulling them chest to chest, Stan’s written words, ‘<em>If you find someone worth holding onto, never ever let them go</em>,’ shifted around like the leftover sand still loitering in Eddie’s sneakers and his waterlogged eyes started to drip too. He shoved his face into Richie’s hair, letting his messy curls absorb the tears that fell.</p><p>Stan didn’t deserve the death he got and Eddie furiously cursed the clown all over again in his head. But (and this was the really fucked up thing) Eddie kind of wondered if Stan never made it back to Derry because he was the only one of the Losers who actually managed to leave.</p><p>Bill had developed a bit of a relationship with Patty in the aftermath of everything, speaking to her on the phone, trading stories, trying to find out anything he could about Adult Stan so he could bring the scraps back to the group to be turned over like precious stones. And even though someone’s life could look like one thing on the outside and be something else entirely behind closed doors (didn’t Eddie know that too fucking well), Stan seemed to have lived a quiet, happy life - <em>exactly</em> the kind of life he would have shaped for himself when he was seventeen because even as a teenager he’d been ancient at heart.</p><p>He’d had a wife who loved him and found his eccentricities charming, a job he liked but that never kept him out late, a fondness for peaceful vacations with a slew of friends – <em>actual </em>friends - not work colleagues or acquaintances or the other people the Losers knew but never really connected with in their between-lives. Because Stan had somehow left Derry and still forged bonds with people who didn’t have the same, very specific trauma to bond over and he was very obviously the only one who’d done that.</p><p>And maybe that was why Stan couldn’t return to their fucked up hometown. He’d managed to find a way to stop belonging to Derry while the rest of them lost something there they had to go and get back.</p><p>So Eddie cried for Stan. He’d already spent so many tears on him and Eddie knew that there would be many <em>many</em> more to come. Sometimes he woke up with Richie’s warmth next to him, the trill of an unfamiliar birdsong whistling him to consciousness, and his first thought would be ‘<em>hey Stan, what kinda bird is that?</em>’ and then he’d remember that he wasn’t fifteen and sleeping over at Richie’s, Stan just out of sight, and that he’d never get to hear another boring-but-a-little-bit-interesting lecture on cerulean warblers ever again and that ache would open up like it was fresh. But Eddie could afford the tears. It was worth it to know someone and love them with every fiber of his being even if it hurt like hell to lose them. He’d spent so much of his life not <em>allowed </em>to feel anything the least bit uncomfortable that even grief had the shine of reminding him he was whole and human and damaged but not broken.</p><p>Richie sniffed loudly against the collar of Eddie’s shirt and Eddie knew he was probably drenched in Richie’s snot. Eddie was a little guilty of that too he realized, indiscreetly wiping his nose along the collar of Richie’s ugly button up before settling his face back against Richie’s stubbled neck. He fit there too nicely, tucked into the alcove where Richie’s neck met his shoulder, nose buried against skin that smelled like childhood and beach air. Even with the likely snot situation, Eddie didn’t have the heart to shove Richie away.</p><p>Losing Stan was painful but the more pressing agony was watching Richie collapse into himself inside the circle of Eddie’s arms – Richie who was always <em>loud </em>and <em>big </em>and <em>bright</em> but who felt so small with his back shaking in silent sobs. Eddie couldn’t quite grasp the whole scope of Richie’s feelings (Eddie loved Stan, loved <em>all </em>the Losers, but he’d been no more equipped to have a crush on someone at the age of thirteen than he was when he was twenty-nine and kind-of-maybe-sort-of-chose to marry Myra) so once again, Eddie was failing Richie, unable to offer him the kind of comforting he needed.</p><p>Unable to do anything else, Eddie tugged Richie closer, hoping proximity and physical comfort counted for something and assuming Richie would pull away when he was done being held.</p><p>And holding Richie was its own sort of relief. As familiar and centering as reaching for his inhaler used to be, the same way sharing space with him always was. And even though the bastard was a giant, Eddie didn’t feel dwarfed by the inches separating their heights (or their breadths, Eddie ruminated, hands absently swiping over the planes of Richie’s broad shoulders, fingers gentle over the lumpy remains of his wound). If anything, Richie always made Eddie feel <em>bigger</em> than he was, seeking him out for safety and security in a way literally no one else in Eddie’s life had ever done.</p><p>They wound up in the bed. After he talked Richie into taking of his shoes and herded him towards the mattress (he’d wash the sheets tomorrow, their jeans were probably covered in sand), Eddie poked and prodded him until he turned on his side facing away so Eddie could curl up behind his back and hug him from behind. It was a very familiar position, a natural side effect of cramming two teenagers into a twin bed most nights of the week while they were in high school.</p><p>The effect it had on Richie was instantaneous – he quieted down with one last little hiccupping sob and, after a few tense moments, sagged against Eddie, a big hand landing on Eddie’s forearm as if to hold him there.</p><p>Distantly, Eddie wondered if he had gotten his own letter, addressed to him by Patricia Uris and waiting for him at the townhouse in New York. Then again, odds were good Myra would have opened his mail given their current circumstances, especially if the return address bore a woman’s name. What she would think when she found a suicide note instead of a love letter, Eddie couldn’t even begin to imagine.</p><p>Spooning Richie was a nice distraction from all the sad thoughts. It had no right to feel so good when objectively it was just closing the few inches of space between them when they slept, but fuck – sleeping with Richie was easily the best rest Eddie ever had in his life and this felt like the logical next step.</p><p>Honestly, after the week or so of bed-sharing, Eddie had been worried the novelty of it would wear off – he hadn’t slept with Myra in years, she complained about his sleep talking and she didn’t like being crowded in her sleep and she was always annoyed by how sweaty Eddie got because he ran hot. Unfortunately for her (and maybe because Eddie had grown up with a sasquatch-sized barnacle in his bed) Eddie had a tendency to gravitate towards warmth in his sleep no matter how hot and sweaty he was. Luckily for Eddie, Richie never seemed to mind when he woke up with one of Eddie’s legs sprawled over his or their arms pressed together. Besides, half the time it was Richie stretching out a hand to lay on Eddie’s chest like he was seeking out his heartbeat even when the idiot was dead asleep.</p><p>With Eddie plastered to Richie’s back, Eddie was again reminded of Richie getting his wisdom teeth pulled and the looks of faintly amused horror plastered over the Tozier parents’ faces when they pulled up in front of the Kaspbrak house, six foot two of sobbing teenager struggling to undo his seatbelt in the backseat while he was doped out of his mind.</p><p>It was unfair, really, how fucking endearing Richie could be when he was such a mess.</p><p>His urgency to get to Eddie had been flattering then and all the ways Richie <em>still </em>displayed that favoritism was intoxicating <em>now</em> which was stupid really. Eddie was forty. He shouldn’t be smug about his best friend obviously preferring his company. Nor should he harbor a secret horrible bite of jealousy over the way Richie was utterly broken up over Stan. Yet… here he was.</p><p>As if he could read his mind, Richie sniffed and shifted, wiping his nose and his eyes, huffing out a surprisingly self-conscious noise. “Ugh – sorry, Eds,” he muttered, voice even more nasal with his nose stuffed up.</p><p>“Sorry? What the fuck are you sorry for, fucknut?” Eddie had been wiping off his own tears and snot onto the middle of Richie’s back, staining his shirt without compunction. It wasn’t like Richie would notice and if he did, he almost certainly wouldn’t care. Eddie watched Richie dab up salsa he’d spilled on his lap with a chip and eat it and then try to put those same jeans on the next morning. If Richie was capable of being grossed out, it hadn’t happened yet.</p><p>“Sorry for crying so hard you had to snuggle me into submission?” Richie answered, voice tilting up at the end like a question, something Richie did a lot as an adult but had never done when he was young. That probably meant something but Eddie hadn’t quite parsed out what it was.</p><p>“Not like it’s the first time,” Eddie answered, tightening his arm when it seemed like Richie might think about shifting away. Richie was warm. And holding onto him was nice. And curling up behind him and staring at the shoulders that eclipsed his own had the soothing effect of popping a Klonopin without all the emotional baggage. But maybe that was because Eddie hadn’t been allowed stuffed animals as a child (<em>think of the germs, Eddie-bear</em>) and Richie was a decent stand-in for a very oversized teddy bear.</p><p>“I’m trying to get a handle on it,” Richie grumbled, turning his face into his pillow, voice muffled. And that was a strange enough admission that Eddie loosened his arm and propped himself up on an elbow, peering over Richie’s ridiculous shoulder to get a peek at his tear-stained face. Richie had pushed his glasses up to his forehead and his eyes were red and puffy, still shining with tears.</p><p>“What, you don’t like being the world’s biggest cry-baby?” Eddie goaded, propping his chin on Richie’s bicep. Richie startled and then sniffled when Eddie wiped away a wet trail running down his cheekbone with a knuckle, stealing a look at Eddie out of the corner of his eye.</p><p>“<em>I </em>don’t care. I think it’s, like, some sort of dam broke inside me, you know? I spent twenty-three years not feeling anything but it wasn’t like the emotions weren’t there. They were just stuck under the surface. So I have this backlog of sappy holiday specials and nice birthday cards and E.T. re-watchings stored up inside me and anything not perfectly neutral is enough to bust out the water works.”</p><p>“If you don’t care then why does it matter?” Eddie asked, lying down to smoosh himself against Richie’s back again. His shirt smelled like ocean air and the laundry soap that Eddie used now too and the familiar smell of Richie that somehow hadn’t changed much at all over the course of twenty years. Eddie took another long, deep breath.</p><p>“You don’t think it’s annoying?” Richie asked tremulously.</p><p>“No. Why would I?”</p><p>“I just thought maybe you’d be sick of putting up with people crying.”</p><p>Eddie scoffed humorlessly into Richie’s shoulder blade. So <em>that’s </em>what this was about. Richie had been surprisingly restrained when it came to asking about Myra even though he’d seen the questions burning hot and fast behind Richie’s magnified eyes. Young Richie wouldn’t have hesitated to ask anything he was thinking, blurting it out at the worst possible time or making some horrendously inappropriate joke. Sometimes Eddie really missed that Richie. This new one had somehow eclipsed him in maturity and in what fucking world was <em>Richie </em>the mature one?</p><p>“You gotta stop walking on egg shells with me man,” Eddie snapped, his arm tightening around Richie’s waist when Richie tensed. “I’m not <em>delicate</em> –”</p><p>“I <em>know </em>you’re not, Eds,” Richie hurried to interject.</p><p>“Then stop treating me like I am.”</p><p>“Okay…” Richie breathed on a long exhale, flailing once, wildly enough to shake Eddie off and flop over, clamoring to sit cross-legged and Eddie mirrored him until they were knee to knee, semi-glaring at each other, probably utterly ridiculous since they’d both just been crying pretty hard over Stan and Eddie’s face couldn’t be much better looking that Richie’s blotchy complexion. “Okay fine,” Richie restarted, “I heard your soon-to-be ex-wife on the phone and she seemed to be as big a fan of theatrics as Old Mrs. K.”</p><p>Eddie tried not to flinch but he wasn’t sure he succeeded. Especially not when Richie stole one puppy-dog look at him before wiping his nose disgustingly along the entire length of his forearm while his eyes settled on something out the window.</p><p>And okay, Eddie <em>asked </em>for this, right? And maybe – maybe this was actually something he should talk about.</p><p>“She was. They both were. Crying was their second to last line of defense.”</p><p>Eddie remembered being eleven and asking to go see a movie at the Aladdin with Bill and Richie and Stan. He hadn’t yet learned to refrain from mentioning Richie and Stan in conjunction with his plans (the only friend she semi-approved of was Bill and later Ben <em>sometimes</em>) but he knew well enough not to tell her they were planning on trying to pull a double feature by hopping from <em>Monster Squad</em> to <em>Dirty Dancing</em>.</p><p>That was before It and before Mr. Keene’s not-so-nice explanation about placebos and before Eddie had started looking at his mother and asking himself why she was so different from the moms on TV; before he started noticing that Stan’s mom never raised her voice or that Ben’s mom always hugged the other Losers like she was just as happy to see them as she was to see Ben or that Richie’s mom never demanded a kiss before her son left the house.</p><p>So when she said he couldn’t go out with his friends because Eddie looked a little pale and must be coming down with something, Eddie didn’t question if she was lying, only firmly argued, ‘<em>no mom, I feel fine I promise, can’t I please </em>please<em> go</em>.’</p><p>The answer was no of course except Eddie <em>really </em>wanted to see Dirty Dancing – he knew the guys would be talking about it (and <em>Monster Squad</em> probably too) on Monday and Richie was bound to ruin the ending if Eddie weren’t sitting in the damn seat next to him, both their eyes absorbing the story at the same fucking time. So Eddie argued. It was one of the first times he’d fought his mother’s decision but he hadn’t yet learned that the best way to get what he wanted was to lie about what that was in the first place.</p><p>Eddie still remembered the dip in his stomach that hit him like a fist when his mother’s face screwed up with tears. That gut-lurch that felt so much like falling. Before that point, he had a few vague memories of her crying when his dad died but Eddie had been very young then and not the one who <em>caused </em>those horrible tears. But there, in the living room where Eddie watched cartoons and did his homework and ate dinner, his mom dissolved into the kind of loud, unhinged crying that you weren’t supposed to do at the age of eleven let alone as a full-fledged adult.</p><p>Eddie had cowered at the sight, his own eyes flooding with tears of panic and fear and guilt. He’d tried comforting her but words that weren’t, ‘<em>I’m sorry, mommy. You’re right, mommy. I’ll stay home, mommy</em>,’ were meaningless platitudes.</p><p>In the end he’d accepted two pills from one of her prescription bottles and let her tuck him back into bed. Weirdly enough, she’d been right about the flu. He was groggy and out of sorts long enough that by the time Eddie went back to school, Bill and Stan had moved on from talking about the movies. Richie still filled him in, narrating the story and adding his own obvious embellishments between classes and during lunch.</p><p>(When they rented <em>Dirty Dancing</em> after it came out on tape, Eddie secretly thought to himself that he preferred Richie’s retelling more than the original. It definitely had a lot more ‘<em>fucks</em>’ in it and Richie’s over-sexualized Patrick Swayze impressions were hilarious. Plus, Richie had forced Eddie to re-enact the teaching-Baby-to-dance scene except it turned out Eddie was a way better dancer and Richie had lost his mind trying to get it right, just to prove he could, a whole afternoon in the Barrens spent holding onto each other and trying to fucking salsa while Richie’s crackly boombox wailed ‘(I’ve Had) The Time of My Life’ at them.)</p><p>Myra’s progression into using her tears against Eddie was so similar to his mother’s it actually made him nauseous in retrospect. When they were dating things were different. She’d gently argue him out of making any plans that didn’t include her and guilt him into inviting her over when he wanted to stay in, but she never <em>cried</em>.</p><p>It wasn’t until the first time Eddie asked for a divorce that she <em>really </em>pulled out the crocodile tears. Even through the foggy haze of his life before Mike’s call, something had seemed off about the way she sobbed, begging him to stay, saying it was for his own good, telling him how humiliating it would be for him once he changed his mind and came back to her which she insisted was <em>inevitable </em>because <em>wasn’t she so good to him</em>?</p><p>Now, looking at Richie’s deep sunken eyes and exaggerated cartoon pout, Eddie understood it was because whatever motivation was behind her tears, it wasn’t <em>genuine</em>. They were flat and empty and manipulative.</p><p>But much like the tears his mother had shed, the sight of them had him backtracking. Not <em>all </em>the way - he still insisted he wanted a divorce, right until the moment the pills came out again, except that time it wasn’t Eddie swallowing them down, it was Myra.</p><p>“Richie, I know you’re hung up about my mom and Myra,” Eddie sighed, actively avoiding the ‘<em>I know you’re worried about me</em>’ that had immediately sprung to mind because his mother and Myra had tainted someone <em>worrying </em>about him which was just so incredibly unfair. “But you’ve gotta leave that shit to me. I can handle it.”</p><p>Richie nibbled a dry flake on his lip between his teeth. “I know you can handle it. I just… don’t want to make your life any harder?”</p><p>Eddie laughed at that, abrupt and bright and surprised. “Since when have you cared about that, asshole?”</p><p>“Uh, since always? I just didn’t understand how to not be annoying when I was a teenager. I <em>still </em>don’t really get it right all the time.”</p><p>“It’s not <em>annoying </em>when you cry,” Eddie said, leaning back on his arms and struggling to make sense of the warm feeling pooling in his stomach and oozing out into his limbs. “<em>Especially </em>not when you’re crying for a good fucking reason.” His eyes trailed to the folded letter resting on the nightstand.</p><p>“Yeah but only like 2% of the reasons I cry are <em>good </em>reasons,” Richie mumbled and Eddie fought off a smile.</p><p>“That Last Jedi trailer hit you pretty hard, huh?”</p><p>“<em>I’m just worried about Rey, okay</em>!”</p><p>“You’re such a dork,” Eddie said, but he was pretty sure his voice was immeasurably fond. Maybe even embarrassingly fond. At least no one but Richie was around to hear it. “I don’t think it’s a bad thing.”</p><p>“That I’m a dork?”</p><p>“That you’re <em>emotional</em>.”</p><p>Richie snorted. “That is a very nice way to describe this situation.” ‘<em>This situation</em>,’ apparently, covered the entirety of Richie’s being if Eddie was interpreting his dramatic hand gesture correctly.</p><p>Eddie shrugged. “I actually kind of like it,” he admitted, stupidly feeling his cheeks threaten to heat up. If Eddie were Richie, he might have used a word like ‘<em>cute</em>’ but he <em>wasn’t </em>Richie and no fucking way was he going to confess something ridiculous like that. Richie wasn’t <em>cute</em>. He was a behemoth. A vulnerable, glassy-eyed behemoth.</p><p>“You <em>like </em>when I cry?” A terrible, cat-like smile spread across Richie’s face. “Holy shit, are you a <em>sadist</em>?”</p><p>Eddie refused to acknowledge that with anything more than a blink.</p><p>“<em>Oh my god you are</em>,” Richie breathed and Eddie hurried to bark, “<em>I am </em>not!” over him.</p><p>Richie dissolved into laughter, the kind that toppled him over onto the bed, his glasses knocked askew on his face. Maybe it was looking <em>down </em>on him for once that made it easier to say, “Don’t be a dick about it but I’m not the best at <em>reading </em>people. You make it easy. <em>Most </em>of the time. Other times I’m pretty sure you’re from another planet.”</p><p>“Dude, if all they’ve got up there is shapeshifters with clownsonas, no fucking thank you.”</p><p>That night the Losers did their first group video chat. Richie and Eddie didn’t bother moving from the bed but from the looks of it, Bev and Ben were similarly red-eyed and cozily sharing the same blanket. Bill seemed nearly as wrecked as Richie and Mike had a new weight around his neck.</p><p>Still, it was a relief to see them all on one screen, almost together again.</p><p>The Losers drank to Stan, lifting their glasses while they were split between four different time zones, Eddie and Richie drinking whiskey that Eddie had surreptitiously googled only to gape at the price tag. They each downed a three finger pour and then Richie put the bottle away, shrugging when Eddie gave him a curious look.</p><p>“I don’t want to drink when I’m sad, anymore,” he said quietly from the doorway, only loud enough for Eddie to hear. “Let’s save it for something good.”</p><p>And again that fierce fondness wrapped Eddie’s heart in a fist. Richie was trying. Eddie was trying. They were trying <em>together </em>and somehow – even though they had different problems to sort out – knowing he wasn’t alone made it a little easier.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The next day, Eddie’s phone buzzed where it sat on the table beside his open laptop.</p><p>With conscious effort, he willed away the stab of anxiety the sound induced – one he realized wasn’t some new symptom of Mike’s call or the after effects of starting the proceedings for a divorce or even the cringe-response to beginning a new job at a new office. The anxiety went farther back than all that, the buzz of an incoming text or call making him clench up his muscles like he was bracing for an attack, his breath stalling in his chest.</p><p>It was an old feeling, practically as old as Eddie was, the same one he’d get every time a phone rang while he was at one of his friend’s houses when he was a kid. ‘<em>Is it her</em>?’ he’d wonder to himself with a flinch. ‘<em>Is it mom calling to tell me to </em>come home this instant, Eddie-bear<em>?</em>’ More often than it should have been, it was.</p><p>A quick glance had those muscles loosening and his hand reaching for the phone. It wasn’t Myra (he blocked her days ago); it was Bev sending a selfie of her and Ben to the group chat. They were both grinning, pressed together close, lounging on Ben’s boat in the middle of painfully blue water, the coast over their shoulder dotted with white houses and orange roofs. ‘<em>Greece is incredible</em>! <em>Wish you all were here!</em>’ she gushed. The next pic she sent was of Ben, shirtless with his back turned towards the camera as he admired the view. A candid, Eddie guessed. Even from behind, Ben was fucking <em>ripped</em>.</p><p>Richie wolf-whistled, where he was sat on the floor in the living room, grumpily running through the shoulder stretches the doctor recommended at Eddie’s insistence. He’d been quieter than usual since he woke up, eyes puffy from crying so much the night before, but he’d smiled at Eddie when he blinked himself awake, not commenting on the grip Eddie had on his bicep. It was almost a relief to hear him joke around, even if it was because he’d also apparently noticed Ben’s tanned, glistening back muscles (not that they were hard to miss).</p><p>The phone buzzed in Eddie’s hand and he glanced back down to the group chat.</p><p><em>Richie: what a hunk of manmeat </em>🤤 🥵</p><p><em>Ben: </em>😳😳😳</p><p>Eddie scowled.</p><p>
  <em>Eddie: </em>
  <em>HR wants a word with you, Richie</em>
</p><p><em>Richie: HR wants my </em>╰⋃╯</p><p><em>Bev: no one wants ur </em>╰⋃╯</p><p>
  <em>Richie: way to rub it in Marsh</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Richie: (Ben ive got something better u can rub)</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bev: SEXUAL HARRASMENT! </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Mike: Greece looks beautiful! So do both of you! </em>
</p><p><em>Mike: Richie, did you save that </em>🍆 <em>to your keyboard?</em></p><p>
  <em>Richie: its my new thing</em>
</p><p>Bev followed that with another picture of Ben, this one of him covering his face with a big hand trying to hide his blush, glaring utterly heatlessly at the camera. Eddie really wasn’t sure what to do with the wave of affection threatening to crush him.</p><p><em>Bill: Bev, you’re positively glowing… </em>😉</p><p>Eddie mulled over that winky face for a few minutes, before finally wondering aloud, “Do you think Bill and Bev are going to finally wind up together?”</p><p>He was thinking of freshman year of high school when the two of them were kind-of-sort-of-officially dating – stealing kisses in the halls between classes and always finding an excuse to touch. It would make sense in a way. Maybe the only reason they’d ever slipped apart was because of the clown-amnesia and with their memories back, it was shockingly easy to fall into old patterns. Eddie knew that first hand, stealing a look at Richie who was staring at him across the room, phone still held up like he was in the middle of typing, his mouth fallen open.</p><p>“<em>What</em>?” Eddie demanded, pissed already just<em> looking</em> at Richie’s goon face.</p><p>“Uh – <em>no</em>,” Richie answered emphatically and Eddie’s hackles rose in anticipation of a fight. Funny how that was somehow a <em>good </em>feeling. Revving up to spar with Richie always was. “Bill doesn’t have a fucking chance.”</p><p>“Why the fuck not?” Eddie spat.</p><p>“Because her and Ben are <em>hooking up </em>and I think a threesome with Bill would really put a damper on their whole <em>desperately in love with each other </em>thing.”</p><p>A little gasp huffed out of Eddie. “Wait, <em>what</em>?”</p><p>“Yeah Eds, where the fuck have <em>you </em>been?”</p><p>“Did they fucking <em>tell </em>you that – that they’re <em>in love</em>?” Eddie asked, half whispering the ‘<em>in love</em>’ part for no conscious reason, bristling at the single eyebrow that climbed up Richie’s forehead.</p><p>“It’s super obvious, dude. How the fuck did you <em>not </em>notice?! They’re, like, <em>all over each other</em>. I’m pretty sure they were calling from their fucking love nest last night.”</p><p>And yeah, okay, now that Eddie thought about it, he was pretty sure he saw them holding hands a couple times when everyone was in and out of the hospital in Derry. And they slept together on that air mattress on Mike’s floor. And yeah, they were pretty cuddled up in bed on the video chat the night before, drinking from a bottle of wine tucked between two pillows, Ben’s fingers gently sliding over the bare skin of Bev’s arm.</p><p>But the Losers just kind of <em>did </em>that. Bev had touched Richie’s hair on the drive to the airport and kissed both his cheeks before getting on the plane but that didn’t mean she was <em>interested</em> in Richie. Mike and Bill had spent a good portion of any time in the same room with their arms hooked over each other’s shoulders but that wasn’t a sign of being <em>in love</em>. Fuck, Richie and Eddie were all over each other. Eddie almost constantly had to hold himself back from shoving Richie’s shoulder or bumping elbows or laying a hand on his back – every little touch a reminder ‘<em>hey, you’re okay, you’re here, you’re alive</em>.’</p><p>Overall Eddie wasn’t convinced</p><p>He rolled his eyes, leaning back and crossing his arms. “And since when are y<em>ou </em>the expert on love?” Unless… was it because of his feelings for Stan? Had pining after Stan somehow made Richie more perceptive to romance? Was that <em>a thing</em>?</p><p>But Richie laughed, a harsh bark that sounded bitter. “Expert on love? Not ever once in my life, Eds, that’s just how <em>transparent </em>they are. Spaghetti, they are two of the world’s most beautiful people and right now they are lying around in swimsuits <em>on a boat together</em> off the shores of <em>Greece</em>. If that isn’t a fucking honeymoon –”</p><p>“It can’t be a <em>honeymoon, </em>Bev’s in the middle of a divorce!”</p><p>“A <em>metaphorical</em> honeymoon -”</p><p>Eddie rolled his eyes and sarcastically snapped back, “Oh, right, a <em>metaphorical </em>honeymoon, those are real.”</p><p>“- and she’s getting a divorce, she’s not <em>dead</em>. Have you <em>seen </em>Ben?”</p><p>Eddie scowled, his arms tightening across his chest. “Dude, do you seriously have a crush on Ben now?” Was that why he’d kissed Ben <em>on the lips </em>in the airport? Not that Eddie wanted him to be hung up on Stan forever but wasn’t this <em>too soon</em>?</p><p>“What!? No!” Richie answered fast, voice a little shrill. “Ben’s been in love with Beverly <em>forever</em> –”</p><p>“<em>Since when</em>?!” Eddie insisted, gesturing broadly with his arms.</p><p>“<em>Like, since the minute he saw her</em>!” Richie insisted, matching Eddie’s tone almost exactly.</p><p>“How do you know that?!”</p><p>“Because I have <em>eyes</em>.”</p><p>“That <em>barely</em> work!”</p><p>“Better than yours, Captain Oblivious.”</p><p>Eddie sat for a moment digesting that. Richie didn’t <em>seem </em>like he was fucking with him and it would be a really bizarre way to do so but this was the same guy who once convinced Eddie Mr. Clean was a hermaphrodite. Eddie felt pretty justified being skeptical.</p><p>“Okay so…” Eddie started slowly, staring down at the text chat where Bev and Ben smiled from the same picture. “What gave him away?”</p><p>Richie groaned. “Besides <em>everything</em>?”</p><p>“Something specific, asshole.” If Eddie were with anyone else, he wouldn’t have asked – Eddie knew he wasn’t as… <em>aware </em>of interpersonal stuff as the average person. <em>He’d </em>been sent to HR for a multitude of reasons most relating to ‘aggressively worded’ emails or speaking ‘too angrily’ during meetings and once because one of his coworkers was on maternity leave and Eddie, thinking the card passed around the office was of the Get Well variety, signed with the message ‘<em>Hope you shake it off soon</em>.’ Whoops.</p><p>Richie, after shooting Eddie one more withering glare, laid back on the ground, spreading his arms slowly and bending his knees to do the side lying thoracic rotation Eddie had demoed for him at least twice because he always did it wrong. Eddie watched his form. Richie finally seemed to have figured out on his own which way he was supposed to turn his head.</p><p>After a few thoughtful seconds, Richie asked, “Do you remember Bev’s fifteenth birthday?”</p><p>Eddie frowned, the memory bubbling up like water from a spring. February 1991. Bitterly cold and dark like only Maine winters could be. Worse still because Beverly’s aunt had decided she wanted to move to Boston chasing a man she’d been seeing long distance. Bev had begged to stay until she finished out her freshman year and (maybe it was seeing the usually stoic Beverly cry but) her aunt relented. They’d be gone the day after school ended in early May.</p><p>The Losers felt the weight of their soon-to-be separation like an axe poised on the upswing of a beheading. Even Eddie, who spent the least amount of time alone with Bev, knew things would be <em>different </em>once she was gone. Worse. Less complete. He wasn’t looking forward to it.</p><p>Bill obviously took the news horribly, plastering on a game face when Bev was around and moping in despondency when she wasn’t, sighing all over the place and staring moodily into space.</p><p>“Ben made a big deal out of Bev’s birthday, remember?” Richie prompted, slowly shifting his knees to the other direction and turning his face towards Eddie. His worn t-shirt rode up, showing a sliver of his soft hip and belly. Eddie had grown very used to the sight of Richie in holey shirts and worn sweatpants but it hadn’t yet stopped making Eddie feel irrational spikes of fondness towards this huge gawky fool with his messy mop of hair and his too small apartment. He was so tall he nearly spanned the entire floorspace wall to wall.</p><p>“Wasn’t Bev’s party Bill’s idea?” Eddie asked, absently noting the dark hair below Richie’s navel.</p><p>Richie scoffed and Eddie bristled.</p><p>“Bill was the one that got us all on board!” Eddie insisted, getting the feeling he had missed something obvious but he had no idea what it was.</p><p>Bill <em>had </em>brought the idea to the group, eyes bright with excitement in a way they hadn’t been since Bev got the news she’d be moving. It was Bill who convinced them all to traipse out to the shore of the Kenduskeag (to the same clearing where they’d sliced open their hands) where shivering and good-naturedly bitching, they’d stomped down a big circle of snow and used scrap wood stolen from the dump to build a lean-to, chopping up fallen trees in the Barrens with winter-stiff fingers.</p><p>Eddie hadn’t done much of the actual work, too cold to move in his comically small jacket. He’d outgrown it the year before and by Bev’s birthday, three inches of his wrists showed at the cuffs, the small of his back blasted with cold air any time he bent over. The thing zipped, thank <em>fuck</em>, but only barely. He’d asked his mother for a new jacket but she’d only tutted and simpered, ‘<em>What are you talking about, Eddie-bear? Why do you want to grow up so fast</em>?’ seemingly determined to ignore the stretch of bare skin between his coat sleeve and the top of his gloves.</p><p>Richie had the opposite problem, swamped in his dad’s old Northface jacket, the bulk of it so big on his skinny frame he could (and often did) zip Eddie inside of it with him, his ridiculous heat a reprieve from the cold outside the movie theater while they waited in line to buy tickets or when they hung out in Mike’s freezing barn. “Open up, asshole,” was all Eddie needed to say and Richie would roll his eyes and grumble but he’d slide his zipper down and hold out the sides of his coat in invitation, allowing Eddie into his personal heated cocoon.</p><p>While Eddie perched on the driest looking rock in the clearing and oversaw Stan’s precise Boy Scout informed stacking of firewood, Richie clomped around and helped Ben and Bill erect the lean-to. Eventually Richie tugged his jacket off and wrapped it around Eddie, Richie’s curls damp with sweat and practically steaming in the cold air while he continued working in just his hoodie and gloves. The coat held on to Richie’s warmth long after he’d handed it over.</p><p>Bev’s birthday that year fell on a Friday and after school, Bill walked her out to the Barrens while Stan drove everyone else around, grabbing whatever blankets wouldn’t be missed from their homes so they could beat her and Bill to the clearing and light the huge bonfire they’d set up.</p><p>Richie interrupted Eddie’s reminiscing, eyes glued on him with something friendly and private. “We built a fucking <em>lean-to</em>, Eds. Does that sound like a Bill-idea?”</p><p>No, it decidedly did not but Eddie wasn’t about to give Richie the satisfaction of being right. Richie smiled knowingly anyways.</p><p>Despite the cold, Bev’s birthday was a blast. Between the six of them, they had chopped enough wood to fuel a roaring fire and once the sun went down (early, as it always did in February), they didn’t have to worry about the smoke trail in the sky summoning the cops. They were hidden away in their warm sanctuary while winter savaged the air around them. Crammed all together under the lean-to and snuggled under a mountain of blankets, the fire baking their faces and the smell of wood smoke strong in the air, they roasted marshmallows and sipped beers and pretended, for a little while, that they could stay out there forever.</p><p>“Ben designed the lean-to and bought the marshmallows and paid me for the beer. He totally came up with the idea, too. Not that he’d take the credit for it but <em>come on</em>. If it were up to Bill he’d have probably tried to borrow Stan’s car and taken her out to Lookout Point to make a run for third base.”</p><p>“Gross,” Eddie bit back instinctually and Richie laughed. Annoyed, Eddie shut his laptop and padded into the living room, finding the least stained spot on the carpet to sit and run through the stretches Richie hadn’t done yet, something about their conversation feeling wrong with Richie ten feet away. Sure enough, up close, Eddie had a better view of Richie’s eyes behind his glasses – the glint of happiness he always got when he talked about the Losers, the lines at the corners of his eyes when he smiled, the sadness still lingering around his brow.</p><p>“Oh, and Ben was the one who came over and decorated my basement, remember?”</p><p>When finally they’d run out of wood to burn and thrown snow over the last of the smoldering embers, they packed back into Stan’s car and went to Richie’s, grabbing a few pizzas on the way. Objectively Eddie had known the streamers and the handmade ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY’ sign in the basement couldn’t have been Richie’s doing (they were too neatly done and none of the letters were shaped like dicks) but he’d never asked.</p><p>Bev had loved it of course, just like she loved the cake Mike and Stan had made from scratch (Mike did the baking, Stan the decorating), and the special mix-tape Richie handed over with a flourish, and the History essay Eddie had written for her (with firm instructions she re-write it herself so the handwriting didn’t get them both busted), and the book of poetry Bill shyly tucked into her hands. Eddie had thought it was kind of weird Ben didn’t give her anything but Bev hadn’t seem bothered, smiling at him with an extra special glow that Eddie now wondered about.</p><p>“I mean, now that you mention it he <em>was</em> always looking at her,” Eddie said, shoving at Richie with his foot until he sat up with a groan, pulling his arm across his body and smirking when Richie mirrored his pose. “And he brought her up a lot when she wasn’t around, huh?”</p><p>“<em>There </em>it is,” Richie sing-songed, smiling. “Fucking stars in his eyes, right? Poor sap was ass over tits for her.” Richie’s grin softened. “Still is.”</p><p>If that’s what it was to have a one-sided crush, Richie (<em>shockingly</em>) had been much more subtle. Richie never spent any amount of time waxing poetic on Stan when he wasn’t around, not the way Ben found a way to bring up Beverly at almost any opening. Nor had Eddie ever caught Richie staring at Stan – not at school or in the clubhouse or at the quarry. But Eddie never much liked when Richie’s attention was on anyone but him so maybe he did that when Eddie wasn’t around.</p><p>“Do you think she knew Ben liked her?” Eddie asked, trying to understand how there had been this second layer to their group dynamic he’d never seen – both with Ben and Bev and with Richie and Stan. Bev had been with <em>Bill</em>. And Stan couldn’t stand to be touched let alone kissed or hugged. Wouldn’t those crushes be <em>painful</em>?</p><p>Richie scrunched up his face in thought. It didn’t escape Eddie’s notice that this conversation with Richie was almost <em>exactly </em>the kind of conversation they’d occasionally have when they were young – Richie slowly (and only slightly condescendingly) explaining why Mike didn’t like walking past the biker bar on the edge of town or clarifying why Eddie should stop grabbing Stan the way he used to because Stan didn’t like it anymore. It was a side benefit to all the trash pouring out of Richie’s mouth. He wasn’t afraid to spell shit out and sometimes Eddie needed that, subtlety a water too dark for him to navigate alone.</p><p>“I think she might have had some idea,” Richie eventually answered. “But Young-Bev, she thought she needed the Big Hero type because she wanted to be saved. I think she’s happy being her own hero these days.”</p><p>Eddie wondered what Young-Richie saw in Stan. Was it the stability? The quiet peacefulness? The dry humor?</p><p>“Plus,” Eddie said absently, thinking aloud more than anything else, “It probably helped that Bill was pretty fucking dreamy,” startling out his thoughts when Richie dramatically gasped.</p><p>“Did you just say <em>Bill</em> is <em>dreamy</em>?!” Richie demanded, eyes huge behind his glasses. “Do you think Bill <em>fucking </em>Denborough is <em>dreamy</em>?!”</p><p>“I mean – not <em>now</em>. Not that he’s <em>not</em> anymore,” Eddie sent a silent apology to Bill who he could clearly picture looking wounded, “it’s just… different.”</p><p>Richie seemed on the verge of an aneurism, voice <em>intensely </em>high when he grit out, “Exactly what part of Bill is <em>dreamy</em>?”</p><p>“<em>Was</em>,” Eddie repeated insistently, “And I don’t know. He was tall.”</p><p>“<em>I </em>was tall. I <em>am </em>tall! Bill is shorter than you now! <em>What the fuck, Eds</em>!”</p><p>“I don’t know he had a nice face. And he was, like, broody and quiet.” Richie clutched his chest, a noise punched out of him like he’d been hit in the stomach. “You could tell he never said everything he was thinking and that was – I don’t know – enigmatic or some shit. And he had that stutter –”</p><p>“Don’t you <em>dare</em> tell me you thought the stutter was <em>cute</em>.”</p><p>Eddie shrugged. Richie tugged at his own hair.</p><p>“I can’t believe you had a crush on <em>Bill</em>.”</p><p>“I didn’t have a <em>crush</em>!” Eddie bit out, indignant.</p><p>“You just called the bastard <em>dreamy</em> and expounded on his looks <em>and</em> his charisma <em>and </em>his fucking <em>speech impediment</em>! <em>Eds</em>! <em>That’s a crush</em>!”</p><p>Eddie considered that. He didn’t think it was quite so easily defined as a <em>crush</em> but maybe that wasn’t too far off, either.</p><p>Eddie looked up to Bill, fucking worshipped him when they were kids and Bill was the only boy his mom let him play with (even though she said his stutter was a sign of how <em>wrong </em>and <em>bad </em>he was) because she knew Bill’s parents.</p><p>To Eddie, who had barely been let out of his house to play in the yard since his dad died, it seemed like Bill knew how to do everything. He taught Eddie how to ride a bike and how to whistle with a blade of grass and how to sword-fight with sticks. He fought off an adolescent Bowers when he shoved Eddie into the shallows of the river and splashed in after him, both of them stripping to their underwear so their clothes could dry in the sun once Eddie nearly had an asthma attack worrying that his mom would never let him out of the house again if he came home dripping wet.</p><p>By the time Bill lost Georgie, a little of that intense hero-worshipping had faded. Bill wasn’t some god on earth (Eddie had hugged him tight when he’d found him crying between the back shelves of the school library his first day back after Georgie went missing and felt the flesh and bones under his own hands). Bill was a boy just like Eddie. Smarter and kinder and better but still a child.</p><p>But in all the time he spent looking up to him, Eddie had never thought about kissing Bill or holding his hand or running his fingers through his hair – none of the stuff he saw Bev and Bill do that one year they were together. It was more like if Eddie could choose to be anyone in the world, he might chose to be Georgie (awful clown-mauling aside, obviously – <em>jesus, sorry Georgie</em>). Eddie wanted to live in a world of Bills patient explanations and gentle coaching and limitless love. He wanted to go to sleep knowing Bill was down the hall, ready to come barging in at the slightest hint of distress. Even though he eventually grew out of the desire to be protected, when Eddie was young he liked the idea of Bill’s narrow shoulders standing between him and anything that tried to hurt him.</p><p>Was that the same thing as a crush? Was that how <em>Beverly </em>felt? Was that <em>love</em>?</p><p>In some ways he hoped it was. It made him feel less alien from everyone else who apparently were all knotted up together with hormones.</p><p>“I <em>might </em>have had a crush on him. When we were like <em>seven</em>. It wasn’t –” Eddie floundered under Richie’s wide-eyed look of <em>something </em>but Eddie couldn’t pin the emotion down. “I wasn’t writing ‘<em>Bill and Eddie</em>’ in my fucking notebooks and circling it with a heart,” Eddie said disdainfully, watching Richie’s cheeks darken inexplicably. “I just – I got the appeal, okay?”</p><p>“<em>Fucking Bill</em>,” Richie muttered to himself.</p><p>“So what, now Bev traded up to Ben? You think it’s cause he has, like, back abs?” Richie snorted, his hands slipping under his glasses to rub at his eyes.</p><p>“What, do you get the appeal there, too?” Richie said, voice strained.</p><p>“Rich, the guy fucking <em>bridal </em>carried you into the hospital.”</p><p>Richie’s hands fell and he gaped. “<em>What</em>?! And I was <em>unconscious</em> for that?!” He pulled his phone up and started typing angrily. “<em>Now </em>I’m fucking pissed…”</p><p>Eddie’s phone buzzed but this time he knew he didn’t need to tense, scoffing when he read:</p><p>
  <em>Richie: just found out i was in those arms of steel but wasted the moment bleeding too much</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Richie: Benny-boy, think we can go round 2 at x-mas? </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bev: im not encouraging this harassment</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bev: (but u should def request the Dirty Dancing lift)</em>
</p><p>“Okay, smart guy,” Eddie grumbled, not entirely thrilled with the way Richie’s eyes had fucking popped out of his head as he read the last text. “Who else was relentlessly trapped in one-sided love when we were young?”</p><p>‘<em>Tell me about Stan, tell me about Stan</em>,’ he chanted in his head, fucking <em>dying </em>to hear the details of Richie’s crush.</p><p>Incriminatingly, Richie’s cheeks darkened and his eyes glued themselves to the carpet. Eddie fucking <em>knew </em>it; that was just as good as a confession.</p><p>“Uhhhhh –” Richie started, his voice like static, interrupting himself when both their phones buzzed.</p><p><em>Bill: </em>😂 😂 😂</p><p><em>Mike: </em>😲 😲 😲</p><p>“Oh,” Richie said, jerking his head up from his phone looking a little wild-eyed. “Bill and Mike <em>totally </em>want to bang.”</p><p>“<em>No fucking way shut the fuck up</em>,” Eddie grit out, shoving Richie over and kicking him in the hip, furious Richie wouldn’t just fucking <em>talk to him </em>but also fucking <em>reeling</em>. Bill and Mike? Richie had to be making that up, right? <em>Right</em>?!</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>A few hours later, Eddie found himself alone in Richie’s apartment, a spreadsheet with a work assignment minimized, six real estate tabs pulled up in Chrome, a list of podcasts jotted down in a note at the corner of the screen, and an email from his lawyer open suggesting he might want to consider pushing for a divorce on the grounds of cruel and inhuman treatment instead of the irretrievable breakdown Eddie had originally sited.</p><p>Eddie had read that email over at least a dozen times, the last half of those occasions more an exercise in moving his eyes over the words he had already committed to heart.</p><p>Apparently somewhere in his communications with his lawyer, Eddie had said enough that the lawyer felt he could make a compelling case for it. This news was distressing on a number of levels.</p><p>Eddie’s first instinct was to call Richie.</p><p><em>Actually</em>, his first instinct was to reach for his inhaler and then when he remembered he’d <em>set that on fire</em>, he thought of his toiletry bag full of pills. The little bottles of Klonopin and Xanax and Prozac and Zoloft. But Eddie still couldn’t help but picture his mother organizing his medication at the kitchen counter like a little ritual and now the image of that was overlaid with Myra holding out her hand over the dinner table every night, an Ambien nestled on her palm. ‘<em>You’ll never get to sleep without it, Eddie-bear</em>,’ she’d say when Eddie argued he wanted to stay up later and ‘get some work done’ (which was code for secretly watch Richie’s stand-up on his work laptop or read Bill’s latest book or scroll through the internet looking for a brief moment of feeling in an otherwise grey day). ‘<em>You know how grumpy you get when you miss your bedtime</em>.’</p><p>Even though Eddie fundamentally understood the difference between medications a well-informed doctor had prescribed and the barrage of pills Eddie was given to keep him off his doctor’s back (Eddie was now beginning to ask himself if his doctor back in New York was more sleazy than he’d previously thought), he wasn’t entirely sure which were which in a practical enough sense to trust himself to continue self-medicating – a term his therapist had thrown around a <em>lot </em>during his second session, during which Eddie had sat hunched and defensive, a long winded rant barreling out of his mouth with little to no consent from Eddie’s brain.</p><p>But besides forcing Eddie to start wondering if he weren’t some kind of pill-popper, his therapist impressed upon him the importance of support networks – something Eddie had initially responded to by biting out ‘<em>I don’t </em>have<em> anything like that</em>’ until he remembered, wait, yes, he did.</p><p>For lack of anything better to do, Eddie glared daggers at the Lost Boys poster on Richie’s living room wall, absently targeting Corey Haim with his eyes. Tsch. Obviously <em>Feldman </em>was the superior Corey. He was funnier and <em>weirder </em>and he did all those stupid voices. God, Richie had bad taste.</p><p>Eddie’s hand, seemingly of its own accord, dipped into his pocket, seeking out the comfort of his inhaler but instead it found Richie’s broken glasses, the shape of the plastic frames already very familiar. Eddie pulled them out and flipped open the earpieces, watching the email on his computer distort through the thick lenses.</p><p>With Richie out at a meeting with his manager (he took a Lyft because his back was still healing and he’d good-naturedly turned down Eddie’s offer of a ride because he, quote, ‘<em>had no idea how long that fucker’s gonna make me dance</em>’), Eddie was alone in Richie’s matchbox apartment with no one to ramble at to distract himself so he studied the blood still caked in the cracked lens, absently wondering at the fact that it didn’t disgust him as much as it probably should. Then again, he’d spent a whole summer with the brown stain of Richie’s blood on his cast, his fingers curling over the mark while he laid alone in bed at night and fought off clown-induced nightmares.</p><p>After a long moment of indecision, Eddie turned back to his phone and, after doing some time-zone calculations, called Beverly. She answered after three rings.</p><p>“Hey Eddie!” she cheered, her voice a little static-y, and belatedly Eddie wondered how much a call to Greece was going to cost him. Then he decided it was worth it if only to experience first hand how fucking <em>happy </em>she sounded to hear from him. No one was ever that happy to hear from him (except Richie and the rest of the Losers, apparently, but he was still getting used to that).</p><p>“Hey Bev, am I interrupting anything?”</p><p>“Not at all, hun, we’re just coming back to the dock after a night out.”</p><p>A few minutes passed where Eddie asked polite but sincere questions about Greece and the weather and the food they’d eaten, happy to listen to Bev describe beaches and tile stairwells (total fucking safety hazard) and an anecdote about Ben slipping and nearly breaking his tailbone landing on his ass (fucking called it).</p><p>When she ran out of travel stories, she hummed softly and asked, “What about you, Eddie, you holding up okay? Richie driving you crazy?”</p><p>Eddie had already sent the group chat pictures of Richie’s depressing just-out-of-college apartment (much to the group’s delight) and periodically someone asked after Richie’s arm and back so there was nothing important to report but talking about Richie was easy. Much easier than talking about other things.</p><p>“We want to buy a house so I’ve been looking at real estate – did you know that idiot’s a fucking <em>millionaire</em>?”</p><p>Eddie had asked what price range Richie hoped to keep in and, because he was <em>Richie</em>, he had shrugged and recoiled like the question made no sense. The inevitable fight that stupid shrug had caused ended when Richie pulled up his online bank account and the last three email reports from his financial advisor on his various high risk investments and his <em>other </em>bank account; the one with high interest savings.</p><p>Eddie had a senior position at a good company and made just shy of six figures a year before taxes. He had a growing 401K and a responsible CD accruing interest. But he also had been living in New York which was fucking <em>expensive</em> and Myra hadn’t worked since before their marriage and even though Eddie didn’t spend much money, Myra had come from a well-off family and was used to a certain quality of life (her words, not his). So while Eddie was by no means low on funds, he wasn’t <em>wealthy</em>. Which, apparently, Richie was. That fucker.</p><p>Bev snorted. “I mean I guess that makes sense. He must be saving on rent living out of that cardboard box of his.” Eddie snorted. “So you’re buying a house together?”</p><p>“No, <em>Richie’s </em>buying a house. I was going to pay rent but then he showed me his bank account so he can go fuck himself. We’ve been looking at listings online –”</p><p>“‘<em>We</em>’?” Bev repeated back curiously.</p><p>“Yeah, but getting Richie to tell me what he wants is fucking <em>impossible</em> and there’s something going on with his career – besides the obvious stuff – but he’s not telling me any of that either so…”</p><p>“… so the answer to ‘<em>is Richie driving you crazy</em>’ is a firm and resounding ‘<em>yes</em>’.”</p><p>Eddie laughed again. “He made me eat a tamale out of a <em>cooler</em> in front of a <em>pet store</em> sold by an <em>old woman and her grade-school aged granddaughter</em>.”</p><p>“Oh nooooo,” Bev moaned over a giggle.</p><p>“Bev. It was the best fucking thing I ever ate. What the fuck.” The sound of her laughter was bright in his ear.</p><p>“So you’re getting along?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Eddie mumbled, picking at a paint chip in the table. “Hey Bev, are you and Ben <em>a thing</em>?”</p><p>Bev snorted again. “Yeah, Eddie, me and Ben are <em>a thing</em>. What gave it away?” she teased but Eddie would rather jump into the dumpster out back than confess it was <em>Richie </em>who clued him in so he changed the subject.</p><p>“How’s your divorce going?” Eddie said, realizing a moment later that might sound like he was drawing an uncomfortable line between the two questions but Bev’s sigh didn’t sound angry.</p><p>“It’s going. So are the assault charges and the restraining order and the lawsuit over rights to the company.”</p><p>Eddie blinked. “<em>Assault charges</em>?” In all their time together in Richie’s hospital room and the various divorce-themed texts they’d been sending back and forth, Eddie had never once asked Bev <em>why </em>she was getting a divorce, feeling too much like that would be prying (and because <em>he </em>absolutely didn’t want to get <em>any </em>questions about his own relationship so he figured everyone felt the same way). The content of their bonding texts were more over the logistics of attaining their divorces than the circumstances that led to them. “<em>Bev</em>,” Eddie whispered, at a total loss of what to say.</p><p>But Bev came to his rescue, her voice strong and only a little bitter when she said, “Yeah, so remember my dad?”</p><p>The answer was not really. Eddie knew he was an asshole and that he scared the shit out of Bev even though he wound up in prison after the whole encounter with It and in theory left her life for good. Eddie had never found out what he’d done to get put in prison but there was a stretch of time when Bev had spent a lot of time going to the police station and then later court, finding her way back to the Clubhouse looking pale and drawn, a cigarette perpetually between two shaking finger.</p><p>As an adult, the story that information told was… <em>distressingly</em> bleak.</p><p>Bev continued without waiting for Eddie’s answer, “Turns out without all those formative childhood memories, I found the closest thing to my father and married him.”</p><p>“<em>Holy shit, me too</em>!” Eddie almost shouted, impractically <em>elated </em>even though there was a horrifying subtext there that Eddie hated more than anything. But still, it was <em>insanely </em>validating to know he wasn’t the only one who’d run straight back into the arms of the person who hurt him the most. He amended, “I mean, not my dad, obviously. My mom. I married my mom.”</p><p>“Shit,” Bev mumbled flabbergasted, then seriously she asked, “<em>Should we start a club</em>?”</p><p>Eddie spent the next hour and a half on the phone with her and it was horrible. The things that had happened to Bev (Eddie now understood why Richie exclusively refereed to Tom as Bev’s piece-of-shit-ex-husband), the way she’d lived her life in a fear she thought was normal, the way the abuse had started small and semi-excusable, escalating slowly while she adjusted to the burn of boiling water.</p><p>And when Eddie haltingly related the aspects of his marriage that were starting to feel a little <em>off</em> now he had some external perspective in the form of his friends – the carefully portioned meals and diets he was limited to when he <em>knew </em>she ate freely while he was at work, the 9pm curfew that he was forbidden from breaking even if it was work keeping him out late, the frequent phone and laptop inspections and google history checks and the parental lock on the cable box - Bev listened with a fervor he could feel from the other side of the globe.</p><p>She didn’t think he was <em>stupid </em>for letting Myra’s fist wrap around him, little by little, until he was choking with her fingers around his neck. Bev understood. She’d been there too. They weren’t alone anymore.</p><p>“All in favor of the ‘<em>So I Married My Childhood Abuser</em>’ club raise your hand,” Bev said after they’d both sat in silence for a solid minute, listening to each other breathe, lost in their own awful thoughts.</p><p>“I can’t fucking stand this, Bev,” Eddie admitted, rubbing at his face and flopping over onto his back. At some point during the conversation, he’d crawled on top of Richie’s made bed and buried himself in the pillow Richie slept on, broken glasses twisting twisting twisting between his fingers. Richie’s pillow smelled like his shampoo and his cologne and his skin. It made opening up a little easier, grounded Eddie in the knowledge that whoever the fuck he’d been while he was sleepwalking (his preferred way to think of the life he lived without the Losers), that wasn’t who he was now. “This is such bullshit. We fought an alien clown when we were <em>thirteen</em>. That was supposed to be the worst thing that could happen to us.”</p><p>“It sucks,” Bev agreed heartily. “It sucks so bad and it’s fucked up for like a million reasons but… at least we get a chance to fix things. At least we’re alive.”</p><p>And Eddie knew that was probably a reference to Stan who <em>wasn’t </em>alive, not anymore, the only one of them who would never know what the world looked like on the other side of It, the one who gave up his <em>life </em>so that the Losers and countless generations of future children could live theirs.</p><p>But Eddie couldn’t stop picturing Richie’s too-pale cheek pressed to the metal of Mike’s truck bed, his glasses askew, his pulse fading until Eddie couldn’t feel it under his panic-numb fingers.</p><p>Hating how vulnerable it would make him but desperate for the answer, Eddie asked, “Bev, how do you know you <em>love </em>Ben? Sometimes…” Eddie swallowed, feeling like a teenager, talking on the phone with Richie’s pillow pressed against his chest, his heart aching for himself and his friends (not that his mother ever let him have privacy on the phone and not that teenaged Eddie had thought much about love but maybe he was <em>finally </em>getting to grow up, just a little bit). “Lately I’m not sure I know what love is <em>supposed </em>to feel like, you know? Our parents loved us wrong if they even loved us at all and so how the fuck – how do you know it when it’s the <em>good</em> kind of love?”</p><p>The sigh Bev heaved wasn’t sad. If anything, it sounded a little wistful. “I’m no expert on this, Eddie, that’s for fucking sure,” Bev said with a shocking amount of levity considering their conversation. “But when I’m with Ben I feel… <em>good</em>. I’m not anxious around him or afraid of him getting mad and I don’t have to pretend to be the polished person I used to try so hard to be. I can make mistakes. I can be messy or annoying or hard to handle. I can say no and he’ll listen. I can say <em>anything </em>and he’ll listen.”</p><p>Eddie waited for her to go on, heart in his throat, eyes locked on Richie’s broken glasses where he held them above his head. He’d have to put them in his pocket before Richie got home – the thought of him finding out Eddie carried around his broken glasses like some stupid good luck charm was too embarrassing to stomach.</p><p>“The scary thing is knowing that could change. Tom wasn’t the nightmare he turned into when we got married but I never felt like <em>this </em>with him either. I trust Ben, but more importantly I trust <em>myself.</em> And after everything, I’m not gonna let Tom give me one more thing to be afraid of.”</p><p>When they hung up with maybe a few too many ‘<em>I love you</em>’s and ‘<em>Call me anytime</em>’s, Eddie punched Richie’s pillow twice to let out some of the restless energy coursing through his veins before he marched back to his open laptop and typed out a response to his lawyer.</p><p>It wasn’t like Eddie <em>wanted </em>a long drawn out separation where he dragged Myra through the mud. He wasn't like Bev who wanted to burn Tom Rogan to the ground (and honestly, Eddie wasn’t a violent man but after the call with her, he’d be the first to hand her the gasoline), he just wanted to be <em>done </em>with the part of his life where he back-stepped into the worst of his old habits.</p><p>Ideally, Myra would consent to a no-contest divorce, they’d quietly agree to split up their finances, and he’d be free of her as soon as possible. Even if that meant she took half his money and kept the townhouse. He expected to be paying alimony (Myra hadn’t worked since they got married and she’d have to reintegrate herself into the workforce) but he didn’t care if he was writing her a check every month for the rest of his life so long as she wasn’t looming over him, <em>owning </em>him in the way that was just too fucking comfortable even as it smothered him to death.</p><p>But so far, Myra had seemed about as willing to peaceably file for divorce as she was to take the subway - which was to say there was no fucking chance in hell. Fighting was her life’s work, carefully breaking down arguments and turning them back around on Eddie until he crumpled, feeling like a villain for taking a good promotion at work just because it meant two short business trips to Indiana every year. Considering Eddie’s phone lit up at least twice a day with unidentified callers and he now had more blocked numbers saved to his phone than actual contacts proved she wasn’t planning on giving up easily.</p><p>Eddie raised Richie’s glasses again, watching the email blur and break into pieces through the broken lens.</p><p>With a little bit of work, Eddie and his lawyer could make a good case for cruel and inhuman treatment. He wouldn’t necessarily need to <em>file</em> it that way, but maybe with the evidence laid out in front of her, maybe with the knowledge a judge might look at her behavior and decide she deserved so much less than what Eddie was willing to give her, she’d stop pretending Eddie was going to change his mind and let the split be somewhat amicable. </p><p>Maybe. </p><p>Myra had been reasonable once. In theory she could be again.</p><p>Eddie tucked Richie’s glasses back into the safety of his pocket and started typing a response.</p><p>There were medical records from five years prior that would help support the case of cruel and inhuman treatment - Myra’s stomach needed to be pumped the first night Eddie hedged the idea of getting a divorce and she’d swallowed half a bottle of Hydrocodone to convince Eddie to stay. It wasn’t the only proof of the wrongs in their relationship but it was the most damning and the most painful to bring up. Getting it off his chest was a relief.</p><p>By the time Eddie had obsessively read and re-read his response for the sixth time, Richie fumbled his way into the apartment, an impossible smile spreading across his face the moment his magnified eyes landed on Eddie. “Spaghetti!” he cheered, looking for all the world like there was no one he’d be happier to see. “I brought ingredients for spaghetti!” he crowed, holding up the grocery bags looped over his left forearm.</p><p>Halfway through re-re-re-reading the first paragraph of his email, Eddie took one long look at Richie and then hit send, standing up to take the bags.</p><p>“You still aren’t clear to carry shit, asshole,” Eddie reminded him even though the bags weren’t terribly heavy. But the idea of Richie tearing his still healing skin was too horrific to imagine.</p><p>As soon as Eddie got into reaching distance, Richie’s free right arm pulled Eddie into a side hug and ruffled Eddie’s hair in a way that was annoying but also somehow extremely comforting. “Miss me?” Richie asked and Eddie let himself lean a little heavily into Richie’s chest for a prolonged moment, drinking in the calm Richie radiated like a heater.</p><p>“You were only gone three hours,” Eddie mumbled into Richie’s sternum before forcing himself away, snatching the bags from Richie and unloading them on the kitchen counter.</p><p>“That’s not a ‘<em>no</em>’,” Richie sing-songed.</p><p>And Eddie, who didn’t want to lie to Richie but didn’t want to inflate his massive ego any more than it already was either, turned on the iciest stare he could muster when he really <em>was</em> stupidly glad to see him again.</p><p>But Richie, too fucking perceptive, knew what his silence meant and started crooning, “<em>Eddie my love, I love you so-o, How I’ve waited for you you’ll never kno-ow.</em>” Richie caught Eddie up around the waist and grabbed his hand, the two of them spinning in a slow circle, the same way Richie had done a million times since he discovered the song on an album in his mother’s collection when they were eleven. Eddie pointedly stepped on his toes before Richie predictably tried to dip him and Richie laughed, loud and delighted and a little too close to Eddie’s face but that was okay. Eddie liked it when Richie laughed.</p><p>“<em>Please Eddie don’t make me wait too long</em>,” and Eddie hid his smile in Richie’s shoulder.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Oblivious Eddie is 💖</p><p>EDIT: Check out this amazing artwork inspired by the chapter by art.forbutts on instagram!</p><p>https://www.instagram.com/p/CJFkzAelkZy/?igshid=1shvduzqskzms</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter Ten</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: mentions of past substance abuse and suicidal thoughts</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Eddie. Kaspbrak. Liked. Boys.</p><p>Okay. That wasn’t <em>explicitly </em>true. It wasn’t like he’d posted a fucking tweet coming out to the world or anything. But if the media hailstorm Steve had been doing his best to corral could fit inside one person’s brain, that would be exactly how little chill Richie had over Eddie straight up confessing, ‘<em>yeah, I totally probably had the hots for </em>Bill <em>fucking</em> Denborough<em> when we were kids, no big deal</em>.’</p><p>Except it was <em>totally </em>a big deal. It was the biggest deal Richie had ever fucking heard in his life. And now he had to walk around like a normal person and go to meetings with his manager and lug his (and Eddie’s!) laundry back and forth to the laundromat and somehow not <em>skip through the fucking streets</em> even though he kinda felt like breaking into a horrible musical number complete with heel kicking and blue birds singing because <em>Eddie Kaspbrak liked boys</em>.</p><p>Never, not even once in Richie’s entire life, did he think for a single second that Eddie might remotely humor the thought of like-liking a boy. It just wasn’t possible. Half the time, Richie wasn’t sure Eddie could like-like <em>anyone</em>, a conclusion he came to when Eddie <em>still</em> made disgusted faces anytime Mike pecked his Junior-year girlfriend on the cheek when they all hung out together even though they were seventeen and most of Richie’s free time was spent wondering how far down Eddie’s throat he could shove his tongue if he ever got the chance.</p><p>If hoping Eddie was asexual was in some ways wishful thinking, whatever. Eddie getting a girlfriend might have genuinely killed Teenage Richie and harboring the thought of its inevitable fruition made him do the kind of dangerous shit he’d be smarter to avoid – like picking fights with Bowers’ successor or sneaking into Eddie’s bedroom at night to steal moments of closeness (hard to say which one hurt more) – so a little harmless wishful thinking wasn’t the worst thing he could do to himself.</p><p>Besides, Richie had spent his entire adolescence convinced he was the only queer in Bangor County. With a higher-than-the-national-average rate of hate crimes, that felt like an obvious conclusion to draw. In retrospect, that probably just meant all the queers were driven <em>out </em>of Derry or were even more fucked up and closeted than Richie was a few weeks ago but still. As far as Richie was concerned, the only thing in town gayer than him was the fucking Paul Bunyan statue.</p><p>But Eddie. Young Eddie had a crush. On <em>Bill</em>, the fucking asshole, but Bill was a boy and therefore, with a little extrapolation, Eddie had admitted that boys weren’t off the table. Richie couldn’t help but wonder if that <em>remained</em> true now they were no longer children.</p><p>And if it was… <em>wow. </em></p><p>Also, fuck you Bill.</p><p>Richie pulled out his phone determined to vent some of his irritation.</p><p>
  <em>Richie: we’re fighting</em>
</p><p>Whatever Bill was doing must not have been that important because a response sprang up almost immediately.</p><p>
  <em>Bill: What did I do!?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Richie: u betrayed me</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bill: How!?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Richie: by being dreamy.</em>
</p><p>“<em>Richie</em>,” Steve bit out, scowling from the other side of his desk. “Can you pay attention for five fucking minutes?”</p><p>“Yeah yeah yeah, sure,” Richie rambled, glancing at his phone again when it buzzed in his hand.</p><p>
  <em>Bill: ???</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bill: I’m flattered? And also confused.</em>
</p><p>Let him be confused, the stupid dreamy jerk.</p><p>“Rich, <em>you’re </em>the one who asked me to look into this stuff, you could at least <em>pretend </em>to be interested.” And okay, Steve made a fair point there. “I <em>still </em>don’t understand why you won’t interview for <em>People</em> or do the late night circuit and ride this burst of fame into a good little chunk of time as a hot commodity but <em>fine</em>. I got you on the podcast you wanted.”</p><p>“<em>Good</em>,” Richie bit back, forcing himself to stop staring out the window while his thoughts looped around Eddie. “And so fucking sue me if I don’t want my sexuality to be a marketing ploy.”</p><p>“Richie. Of course your sexuality is a marketing ploy. You are a celebrity. Everything about you is a marketing ploy.”</p><p>“Yeah, no shit,” Richie bit out, too aware that the person who’d steered Richie’s ship into the waters of fame was no longer the person Richie was. That guy was a real asshole. Desperate for attention and determined to hide in plain sight. Derry’s fucking puppet. “Well, I’m gonna make the world work a little harder for a slice of this Richie pie.”</p><p>After a lot of research and hours spent listening to podcasts, Richie had settled on a sexuality focused show with enough of a comedy tilt to make it on-brand while still providing good information (plenty of which Richie was hearing for the first time ever). His hope was that it would deserve whatever rubber-neckers might tune in to listen to him expound on what got his dick hard. And fuck, maybe someone (most particularly himself) would learn a thing or two along the way.</p><p>That he’d spend the whole interview behind a mic in some Gen-Z-ers apartment instead of sitting in front of a camera weighed in more than it probably should have. Eddie’s serious and thoughtful approval after they both spent most of the last two days listening to a backlog of episodes cinched the deal.</p><p>“<em>Aaaaaannnd</em>,” Steve interrupted his Eddie-related thoughts again, the bastard, “You didn’t ask for it but I got you a few auditions for voice work. And I shopped around the idea of you guest writing for a couple shows I’ve got ins with and they weren’t adverse.”</p><p>“What, <em>really</em>?” Richie asked, shocked out of his fucking gourd. Voice work actually sounded… really good. Fuck, Steve was intuitive. But Richie hadn’t <em>written </em>anything that wasn’t a tweet or a text in years. “How the fuck did you manage that?”</p><p>“Remember that video that went viral about a month ago? The one with the heckler?”</p><p>“<em>Vaguely</em>,” Richie answered defensively. Hecklers weren’t <em>uncommon </em>but in the bigger venues Richie had taken to performing in, security had a tendency to get involved if things got out of hand. This chucklefuck though, he literally had a vape out and in his hand at the <em>historic Chicago Theater</em>. Ripping him to shreds was about as easy as tearing up was these days.</p><p>“Well I played it for them and told them it was all off the cuff – all you and your fucking motor mouth – and they were interested. Said you had strong mean girl vibes they could put to use.”</p><p>“Huh,” Richie hummed, impressed. Honestly, he’d walked into this second meeting with Steve expecting to be essentially fired. But Steve, the clever jerk, had somehow saved his ass again instead. “<em>Wow</em>.”</p><p>Apparently reading Richie’s thoughts, Steve dropped some of his uptight, brisk asshole routine and said seriously, “Richie, I have no fucking clue what’s going on with you on a personal level – I never fucking do –” that was a lie and they both knew it, “- but if this shift in your career is what you want, I’m going to help you do it. Do I <em>also</em> think you can use this time to try writing your own stand-up again?” Richie only <em>slightly </em>cringed when he met Steve’s eyes. “Yes, I do. I’m <em>buying you time</em>. You understand that, right?”</p><p>“I’d have to start from fucking scratch, man,” Richie reminded Steve in case he’d somehow forgotten. “All new material, I’d have to shop it around. Shitty bars and bad sets.” Baking under bright lights, being blinded by them, his soul fucking <em>leaving his body</em>…</p><p>“We’ve done it before,” Steve said, his voice shocking Richie back into the moment. Steve was staring at him, waiting for an answer, and Richie knew he had to say <em>something </em>but it was hard to blink away the memory of the Deadlights.</p><p>“I don’t know if I have it in me anymore,” Richie admitted after the silence stretched on a few seconds too long, slumping into his seat, thinking about how if he dragged his ass onto a stage right now and someone stood up and called him a shit-stain, there was at least a thirty percent chance he’d start crying right there on the spot. And that <em>for sure</em> would make its way onto youtube but it probably wouldn’t get him any fucking jobs.</p><p>“Then we’ll make the shift permanent. Try to get you on some sitcoms if you want something flashier than voice work. We’ll figure it out, Richie.” And wow, Steve was being <em>shockingly </em>earnest. Richie didn’t really know what to do with an earnest Steve except maybe burst into tears. “I’m just asking you to try because I really do believe you can do it.”</p><p>Which, like, wow, okay, maybe Richie had one person in his life besides the Losers who didn’t totally hate him and maybe also almost cared for him even if it was professionally. And how sad was Richie’s life that realizing that immediately made his nose stuff up with snot.</p><p>“Now. What the fuck is this I hear about you looking for a house,” Steve demanded, right back to business.</p><p>“Oh yeah, that,” Richie balked, thinking of how he’d given Eddie the email address to the real estate hook up Steve had connected him with back during the whole push for him to be a normal person. “I decided it was time to shed my crappy apartment snake skin and upgrade to a grown-up place.”</p><p>“Uh-huh,” Steve said, laying both hands flat on his desk and glaring at Richie. “That decision wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with <em>Eddie</em>, would it?”</p><p>“<em>Noooooo</em>,” Richie insisted, pretty sure his glasses were about to start fogging up. “Okay a little. Maybe also a lot.”</p><p>“<em>Richie</em>.” Richie knew he was in trouble because Steve leaned forward to pinch the skin between his eyebrows in a move so Eddie-ish Richie felt a pang of longing, briefly contemplating jumping out the window if it meant getting back to Eddie faster. “<em>What are you doing</em>?”</p><p>That sounded vaguely rhetorical so Richie didn’t bother responding. “Anyway, if we’re done I’m just gonna get going -”</p><p>“Richie,” Steve repeated and <em>fuck</em> he did the best impression of Maggie Tozier despite never once actually meeting her. “I know you’re <em>going through something </em>but <em>be careful</em>, okay? I really don’t want to have to scrape your ass out of another hotel bathroom.”</p><p>“Right,” Richie grunted, stabbed through the chest. “Yeah. No. I’ll uh – I’m trying to clean up my act a bit.”</p><p>Steve’s face scrunched up and if Richie didn’t know better, he’d think Steve was pissed. But Richie <em>did </em>know better, and so he recognized it as Steve’s constipated expression of begrudging approval. “I’ve noticed. And I’m not trying to talk you out of treating your liver like you want to keep it, I’m just concerned…” he trailed off and Richie hated that he knew <em>exactly </em>what he was thinking.</p><p>“… that if I do it for the wrong reasons, I’ll relapse?” Richie filled in for him.</p><p>Steve studied him close enough to make Richie’s skin crawl. “Guess you pay that therapist for something.” Jesus, Steve knew him too well.</p><p>“Listen,” Richie started, figuring Steve especially deserved to hear an explanation but still hating having to give one. “I’m not going fucking straight edge or whatever, okay? I think we all just need to step back and look at his from the perspective that any time I spend not actively in a bender is time to be celebrated.”</p><p>“Keeping that bar <em>real </em>low, huh Tozier,” Steve deadpanned, utterly unimpressed.</p><p>“All the easier to step over.”</p><p>The thing that he couldn’t tell Steve and the thing he couldn’t seem to impress upon his therapist despite all his best efforts, was that pining for Eddie wasn’t new territory for him. He’d been doing it for the vast majority of his life. If Richie was an expert at anything it wouldn’t be hosting a radio show at two in the morning (8 years experience) or stand-up comedy (15 years experience) or even pretending whole-heartedly that he was super-duper straight (at a whopping <em>30</em> years experience but he’d fucked it up a few times – enough to get laid by a dude at least a handful of times).</p><p>No, if Richie was an expert at anything, it was loving Eddie from the sidelines.</p><p>So he was going to keep on doing what he did best: absorb every moment of Eddie-related happiness like he was a fucking sponge and live life in dread of the moment he’d have to give him up.</p><p>Delightfully (or maybe torturously) a lot of those moments lately involved living in a world where people looked at them and thought they were <em>together</em>.</p><p>The real estate agent for sure pegged them as a married couple and Richie was doing absolutely nothing to dissuade him from that notion. Richie nearly started crying when they met with him for the first time and he answered his phone, telling whoever was on the other line that he was with ‘<em>the Toziers</em>.’ Never in Richie’s life had his own name sounded so good, and he had to pretend it was the excitement of buying a house making him teary when Eddie, who had <em>definitely </em>heard himself referred to as Richie husband <em>again</em>, didn’t bother correcting the misunderstanding.</p><p>The pizza delivery guy assumed they were a couple too – which maybe wasn’t as surprising because more than once, they’d full on wrestled each other in the doorway, fighting over who was going to pay for dinner, something he suspected the pizza guy didn’t mind so much because it always resulted in double tips, neither of them willing to be upstaged by the other.</p><p>The nice barista at the closest Starbucks knew them by name now and even though Eddie had literally turned purple when Richie not so quietly announced to the whole staff (and most the customers) that Eddie was a coffee virgin so please be gentle with him, she and Eddie had developed a rapport and now she always had a new suggestion for him when they came in, drawing matching hearts on both their cups that were so cute Richie thought he might combust.</p><p>It was all so fucking domestic, Richie finally understood why people got married. It blew his mind that there was someone who Richie liked <em>so much </em>– even when Eddie was being neurotic over how to clean the shower or the proper way to stock a fridge – that he wanted to spend every moment of every day basking in Eddie’s company like a lizard under a heat lamp.</p><p>Once Steve let Richie make his escape, he checked his phone again, unsurprised to see Bev had messaged him privately. She tended to at least once a day. If Richie thought too hard about it, he could probably cry over that too.</p><p>
  <em>Bev: are you seriously buying Eddie a house???</em>
</p><p>Richie stumbled down the last step on the stairs.</p><p>Okay, maybe buying Eddie a house wasn’t the <em>smoothest </em>he could be playing things. If Eddie wasn’t so emotionally fucked by his mother, he would probably see right through Richie to his lovesick, absolutely desperate core. But he was <em>oblivious</em> – the little goof hadn’t even seen Bev and Ben shooting each other the sappiest looks on earth which meant Mrs. K. (and Mrs. K. 2.0) must have done a real fucking number on him – so Richie figured he was safe from detection.</p><p>And his therapist already expressed a probably rational amount of concern over Richie trying to essentially settle down with a man who had no idea that’s what they were doing. She liked to raise questions like: ‘<em>What if he starts dating?</em>’, ‘<em>What if he discovers your feelings and doesn’t return them</em>?’, ‘<em>What if he figures out you’re a total creep and moves out and you’re left with this huge empty house that will endlessly remind you of him</em>?’</p><p>Okay, that last one was Richie’s contribution. He hurriedly typed a stream of consciousness into his phone maybe a little frantically.</p><p>
  <em>Richie: im buying US a house</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Richie: like all of us</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Richie: u and Benji get ur own room too</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Richie: cause fuck Bill’s fancy Malibu mansion </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Richie: i bet it has a fucking ‘library’ that nerd</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Richie: also fuck u</em>
</p><p>Through the glass front door of the office building, Richie could already see Eddie parked and waiting for him in the driver’s seat of Richie’s Mustang. Eddie had gotten a new, comically large SUV with the insurance settlement check but he still liked to use the excuse of their tandem parking to drive Richie’s Mustang around. Richie had no fucking complaints about that because god – Eddie looked fucking <em>good </em>in that car, all the more so because he obviously loved the damn thing and Richie had never been so glad he’d made the slightly cliché, mid-life-crisis-y decision to spring for the more expensive Shelby Mustang. Richie had no idea what that <em>actually </em>meant – he was half-hungover from a long weekend of hitting the bars after doing sets when he’d bought the thing and figured more money spent equaled a better car – but Eddie had just about lost his shit when he saw the Cobra plate on the front grill.</p><p>“<em>You don’t need a car this nice</em>,” Eddie had seethed at him, snatching the keys from Richie’s hands and popping the hood to stare longingly at the engine. “<em>What the fuck, you </em>asshole.”</p><p>When they were teenagers – after a solid half a year of cajoling Went – Richie traded in a full month of paychecks from the theater to his dad so he could inherit the old family station wagon which was hobbling along on its very last leg. Richie had been half convinced it would break down on him before the end of the school year but Eddie had kept it alive, partially out of love but mostly out of sheer stubbornness.</p><p>Eddie treated that car like it was his own, crammed himself behind the wheel almost more often than Richie did (they both pretended it was because keeping Richie sober was a struggle even then but Richie <em>really </em>liked getting driven around by Eddie and he always figured Eddie liked the control of driving <em>himself </em>around town after a lifetime with his mother). They’d take the car out to the Hanlon farm and Mike’s grandpa would teach Eddie how to do routine maintenance while Richie helped Mike with whatever he was working on, his eyes straying back to Eddie too often – that glowing look of understanding and excitement while he studied the engine too good to miss, the soft, wistful looks he shot Mr. Hanlon too sweet to stomach, the stray smudge of oil on his cheek unbearably adorable.</p><p>God Richie loved him.</p><p>And there was another thing Richie could wonder about. A full fucking twenty-something years later, did he subconsciously get the best car he could imagine because somewhere under all that clown-amnesia he remembered that he once loved a boy who loved cars? Or was that just a coincidence? Who the fuck knew.</p><p>Whatever the case, Richie picked up speed, hurrying towards Eddie, glancing at his phone when it vibrated in his hand.</p><p>
  <em>Bev: u should tell him</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bev: what’ll u do if he starts dating?</em>
</p><p>Oh good, now Bev was in on that too. Richie frowned, beating back the instinctual ‘<em>kill myself</em>’ that immediately popped into his head. That wasn’t who he was anymore.</p><p>When Eddie inevitably started casually fucking people on the rebound (<em>people</em>, maybe not just exclusively women, because once upon a time Eddie had a crush on Bill who was a <em>boy</em> – and <em>fuck </em>was the possibility he might seek out <em>men </em>actually <em>worse</em>?), Richie was almost certainly going to start drinking with intention <em>but </em>he no longer kinda-sorta wanted to die so diving into it with the recklessness he periodically did in his life pre-Derry: The Rematch Edition was firmly off the table. Not with how Stan went – not after seeing the worry-sick faces of his friends around his hospital bed after nearly bleeding to death – not now that he knew how much Eddie would fret over him if he did something so small and stupid as burn his finger a bit while cooking dinner.</p><p>The last thing he wanted was to hurt the Losers and if that meant caring enough about himself to not accidentally-on-purpose pursue death, he could probably manage that.</p><p>‘<em>Ask about a threeway</em>,’ Richie typed out perfunctorily, sick of everyone prepping him for inevitable disaster as if ‘disaster’ wasn’t Richie’s middle fucking name.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>When Richie clicked on the link Steve sent him later on that day, he wasn’t sure what he was expecting – it could be anything from a job posting to a new meme featuring something from his stand-up to a recipe for a smoothie featuring kale because Steve was exactly that kind of health-conscious Californian who occasionally tried to prolong Richie’s life with vegetables - but once the page loaded, Richie dropped the phone on his face, his suddenly sweaty hands no longer able to hold it over his head.</p><p>Eddie, sitting close enough his knee pressed into Richie’s hip, snorted at the fleshy <em>thump</em> and the instinctual, “<em>Gah</em>!” Richie let out when his phone clacked against his glasses and smacked his nose.</p><p>“Idiot,” Eddie hummed, typing away at his computer. “We should probably get enough rooms to have an office, right? If I’m going to be working from home twice a week…”</p><p>“Eddie,” Richie mumbled, bolting upright and regretting moving so fast when it made his shoulder twinge.</p><p>“You’d use it too, right? For writing or whatever you pretend to do for a living?”</p><p>“<em>Eddie,</em>” Richie said more insistently, finally catching Eddie’s full attention.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>Numbly, not sure <em>at all </em>how Eddie would react to the image, Richie turned his phone towards Eddie and only slightly obsessed over the way Eddie’s eyebrows dropped and then rose in rapid succession.</p><p>In retrospect, Richie shouldn’t have been surprised to get papped – he was recognizable enough that it wasn’t an uncommon occurrence and with the whole blowing it on stage and then disappearing of the face of the earth and then coming out on Twitter thing, he was bound to be easy click-bait.</p><p>He was familiar enough with the bullshit of celebrity gossip media that he had a whole routine when he went out in public which mostly included slouching, wearing sunglasses and a hat, and avoiding eye contact with strangers. It also helped that Steve worked hard to make him look presentable when he went on stage or sat for an interview. No one suspected the man with messy hair in ratty jeans, flip flops, and a wrongly-buttoned shirt shuffling down the line at Chipotle was actually a semi-respectable comedian.</p><p>For some reason (because Eddie made him fucking <em>stupid</em>) he hadn’t considered that was something he still had to do when he went out with Eddie, so stuck in that fourteen year old headspace, the one where he was <em>extremely </em>comfortable stopping for ice cream as an afternoon snack and eating it while wandering up and down the street, an arm slung over Eddie’s shoulder because he couldn’t fucking help himself.</p><p>‘<em>Illusive Richie Tozier spotted with mystery man after coming out,</em>’ the bold font headline read above a picture of Richie and Eddie, both holding ice cream cones, Richie’s arm around Eddie’s neck, Richie laughing his fucking head off while Eddie wore that quietly pleased look he twisted his face into sometimes when he got off a good one.</p><p>Richie scrambled to squeeze in next to Eddie, watching while he scrolled down the page. The article, which Richie only briefly scanned because Eddie was steamrollering through it so fast, was short but succinct, raising questions about whether Eddie was Richie’s boyfriend or if he had anything to do with the ‘i ❤╰⋃╯’ tweet and Richie’s canceled tour and Richie’s abrupt departure from the spotlight.</p><p>And the pictures. <em>The pictures</em>. Richie wasn’t sure whether he wanted to dig a hole and bury himself in it or fucking print them out and frame them. Besides the one of Richie laughing, there was one of Richie honest to god pinching Eddie’s cheek (the cheek not bearing Bowers’ scar) and one where Eddie, exasperatedly fond, held out his cone to let Richie get a taste of the flavor he’d picked (strawberry and coconut water sorbet because Eddie was ridiculous and still occasionally dithered over if he was lactose intolerant even though Richie had seen him eat more than half a pizza in one sitting on <em>multiple </em>occasions).</p><p>“<em>Oh fuck</em>,” Richie spat out, running a hand through his hair and <em>vibrating </em>while he waited for Eddie to say something, <em>anything</em>, especially when he scrolled back up to the top of the article and seemingly spent a sold thirty seconds just <em>looking </em>at the photo of Richie laughing at Eddie’s joke. When he didn’t seem likely to fill the silence, Richie blathered, “Shit, I’m so sorry Eds, I didn’t even <em>think</em> –”</p><p>“Why are you sorry?” Eddie snapped, scrolling down again to re-peruse the article.</p><p>Then, because Richie wasn’t mortified enough by the obvious devotion <em>clearly </em>visible on his fucking face in every one of those pictures, Bev had the audacity to send the same article link to the group chat with a ‘<em>this u?</em>’. A moment later, she texted, ‘<em>JUST TELL HIM</em>’ to Richie privately, her message popping up right over the picture of Eddie fucking hand-feeding Richie sorbet. Frantically, Richie swiped it away.</p><p>“Your wife might see this,” Richie said stupidly, regretting not figuring out a way to soften that blow when Eddie jolted, huge brown eyes meeting Richie’s. “You didn’t want her to know where you are and these assholes printed ‘<em>Outside the West Hollywood Salt &amp; Straw</em>’ like they were hoping to get a fucking endorsement cut.”</p><p>And it was a little weird, being pissed about getting caught on camera. Richie didn’t live the kind of celebrity life that meant he was always being followed around by paparazzi. He was more likely to get snapped by a fan and show up on social media, Steve always delighted anytime he got a bit of free press. But <em>Eddie </em>hadn’t signed up for any of that and Richie had been too stupidly distracted by how much better his life was now Eddie drove him around LA in the Mustang Richie was starting to think of as Eddie’s and throwing out casual thoughts like ‘<em>hey, wanna stop for ice cream on the way home.</em>’ Richie had totally forgotten there was a world outside of his happy little bubble.</p><p>Eddie sighed, handing back Richie’s phone and opening up a new tab on his computer, typing in ‘<em>Richie Tozier mystery man</em>’ into google like it was nothing and clicking on the first link. Richie tried not to think about how many options came up after ‘<em>Richie Tozier</em>’ as previous searches and mostly failed because <em>what the fuck was that about</em>?</p><p>“It’s okay, Rich,” he hummed, minimizing the tab when the article loaded, the image of the two of them together even bigger on his laptop screen. “It was bound to happen, right?”</p><p>Richie made some sort of horrible, strangled sound. Eddie resettled himself against the headboard and went back to studying house listings.</p><p>“<em>What </em>was bound to happen? Your wife tracking you down or the TMZ-consuming public assuming you’re my boyfriend?”</p><p>Eddie smirked a little, just a tiny upturn of the corner of his lips, and Richie would have lobbed off his legs if it would somehow let him read Eddie’s mind. “You just came out and now you’re living with a man. Someone was going to notice eventually. I mean you made the news when you grew a weird mustache for that one role… the one for that historical comedy.”</p><p>Eddie, who seemingly was mostly absorbed in looking at houses, didn’t notice Richie’s jaw fucking <em>drop</em>.</p><p>That had only been a thing in <em>200-fucking-9</em>. And yeah, okay, the mustache had been pretty hideous. Definitely gave him a convicted-sex-offender-from-the-seventies look, but the buzz around that had been a tiny blip on the radar on a slow news day and was mostly a PR push for a movie the studio knew was gonna flop. All that was to say one would have to dig pretty deep to find anything about that <em>now</em>.</p><p>Combine that little nugget with the offhand Hawaiian shirt comment in the airport and the reference to his Radio City special and the general tension Eddie got sometimes when Richie made a joke about hard drugs or blacking out and Richie was <em>pretty </em>sure it wasn’t just his massive ego fooling him into thinking it but maybe…</p><p>“Eddie… were you following my career?”</p><p>Eddie blinked, his eyes shifting slightly away from whatever he’d been focusing on and going blank as he froze, cheekbones tinging pink. Richie, in his excitement, tucked his knees underneath him, turning to give Eddie the entirety of his attention because <em>wow</em>. The obvious answer there was ‘<em>yes</em>.’</p><p>“Listen asshole,” Eddie started, typing what Richie was pretty sure was gibberish into his keyboard with hard, pointed strokes and avoiding eye contact. “We went over this. You’re on TV and in fucking magazines and you have a fucking <em>Netflix special</em>. <em>A lot </em>of people know who you are. Why are you so hung up on whether <em>I</em> did too?”</p><p>“Nuh-uh, Eddie baby, that fucking mustache thing – that’s a <em>deep dive</em>. How often do you google my name?”</p><p>“<em>Fucking </em>never, <em>dude</em>!” Eddie insisted, but when Richie made a fake-swipe for his laptop, he slammed it closed and tucked it behind his back.</p><p>“Holy shit. It’s<em> a lot</em>, isn’t it?” Richie crooned, grateful Eddie was already kicking him away because it meant he had an excuse to grab onto his legs, grab onto <em>Eddie</em> which he was fucking <em>rabid </em>to do, taking a hard heel to the gut for the trouble but it was so fucking worth it to wrap his hand around Eddie’s ankle (definitely gonna think about how that felt later, jesus fuck) and pull him down the bed so his feet weren’t so close to kicking Richie’s glasses right off his face. “Oh my god you <em>are </em>a fan!”</p><p>“<em>I am fucking not</em>!” Eddie insisted, abandoning his laptop under the pillow to start shoving Richie away with both hands.</p><p>“Yes you are! You saw <em>Bromeo and Juliet</em>! <em>No one </em>saw <em>Bromeo and Juliet</em>!”</p><p>Eddie, looking just <em>deliciously </em>pink underneath Richie, deflectingly groused, “Shithead, watch your fucking shoulder!” literally a second before Richie felt the twinge of straining it while he tried to loop an arm around Eddie’s squirming waist. Then, in a move Richie would think about <em>forever</em>, using more muscle than Richie would have expected in a man half a foot smaller than himself, Eddie <em>flipped them</em>. And suddenly Richie had a lap full of warm, pissed, <em>blushing </em>Eddie and he was pretty sure he must have actually died in that cave because <em>in what fucking world</em>…</p><p>“What else do you know?” Richie breathed, pretty sure he had fucking hearts in his eyes while he tried to figure out if settling his hands on Eddie’s thighs was <em>too </em>intimate or if Eddie would even notice considering he was busy covering his own face and groaning. Richie, as always, decided to push his luck and was immensely rewarded by the fucking <em>heat </em>of Eddie’s skin through his sleep pants.</p><p>“Oh my god, do you really have to be a shit about this?” Eddie demanded furiously.</p><p>“I <em>really </em>really do, Eds.”</p><p>“That’s <em>not</em> my name. And <em>I don’t know</em>, Rich. Some part of me recognized you! And you’re such an asshole! Even when I couldn’t remember you, you annoyed me! <em>Bromeo and Juliet </em>was <em>awful </em>and I paid eight bucks for that shit to look at your stupid face and hear your stupid voice! What the fuck!”</p><p>Richie started cracking up, perversely in love with the way Eddie shook on top of him with the jostling of his laughter. “Hey man, that shitty movie is buying us a fucking house.”</p><p>“You were the only halfway decent thing in it!” Eddie continued, seemingly not listening to a word Richie had said. “And your stand-up used to be okay, back when you wore those hideous shirts. Blazer Richie sucks, I hate him. All he talks about is fucking women. And you interview okay, you’re <em>funny</em> when you’re <em>you</em>, so why the fuck did you stop writing your own standup?”</p><p>And <em>oh boy</em>, Richie wasn’t expecting the conversation to lead to this.</p><p>In any other circumstance, Richie would be bolting for the door with a ‘<em>don’t we need milk</em>?’ thrown over his shoulder even though Eddie had half a gallon of some weird non-dairy shit in the fridge and they both knew that for a fact. But Eddie was still straddling his hips and the weight of him was fucking <em>intoxicating </em>and Richie had to have a very sincere internal debate over whether he’d rather sit there and let Eddie rip the truth out of him or if he’d ruin the moment and inadvertently discourage Eddie from plonking his stupidly toned ass on Richie again by shoving him away.</p><p>In the end, Eddie’s stupidly toned ass won out – big fucking surprise. Sure, saying anything meaningful was about as bad as tearing his stomach open and pulling out what was inside but there were <em>a lot </em>of things Richie had, could, and<em> would</em> do to prolong contact with any part of Eddie (particularly that beautiful fucking butt) and having a real conversation was worth a lap full of Eddie, no fucking contest.</p><p>Plus… Richie didn’t want to be that empty person he’d been before he was called back to Derry and part of that meant opening up. And Eddie… he trusted Eddie. With almost everything.</p><p>“Tony’s jokes got better laughs,” Richie shrugged, or did the closest thing he could to a shrug when he was hyperaware of every miniscule move he made, determined to avoid shifting in a way that might remind Eddie where exactly he was sitting (re: Richie’s crotch, fucking 1,000,000,000/10).</p><p>“Tony’s jokes are fucking terrible.”</p><p>“But they’re marketable. They slot into a demographic so they can be <em>monetized</em>. When I started out I was making jokes about Star Trek and arcade games and fucking I don’t even know what. No one wants to listen to that.”</p><p>“Who told you that? Did <em>Steve </em>tell you that?” And it was kind of hilarious how the name <em>Steve </em>never came out of Eddie’s mouth without a touch of venom.</p><p>“That’s what <em>everyone </em>told me.” Richie slipped into a deep business man Voice. “<em>You’re decent on stage, Rich, but the shit coming out of your mouth is useless</em>.” And then, because Richie felt like he was lying on a fucking autopsy table and couldn’t stand it, he winked and forced his mouth into a smirk. “Once a Trashmouth, always a Trashmouth.”</p><p>Eddie pursed his lips, his eyebrows smashing together over his nose in a whole-hearted frown. Feeling <em>eviscerated </em>by Eddie’s gaze, Richie shifted. And because Eddie was the most perfect weasel on earth, instead of climbing off Richie like a normal person might, he settled in harder, bracing himself like Richie might try to run away. Richie briefly wondered if Eddie would pin him to the bed if he tried to shake him off but had to save that thought for later lest his dick get hard enough for Eddie to feel underneath him, which it was already halfway trying <em>valiantly </em>to do.</p><p>“So are you really giving comedy up?” Eddie finally asked, voice quiet and a little harsh.</p><p>“<em>No</em>,” Richie answered immediately and so emphatically he surprised himself. He hadn’t known he’d answer that way when he opened his mouth. Then again, the notebook was still in his back pocket and had accumulated a few more notes, his time in the shower split between thinking about <em>Eddie </em>in the shower and composing something that might be a tight five waxing poetic about his neurotic new roommate. So maybe it wasn’t a complete shock. “No, I… maybe. Not forever.”</p><p>Eddie’s face softened and it was unbearable.</p><p>“Look at it this way: how would <em>you </em>feel about getting up on a stage in front of a room full of people and talking about a bunch of personal shit when, very recently, some of that personal shit included your childhood friend dying, coming to terms with being gay, and <em>killing a man</em>?”</p><p>“You forgot about almost bleeding to death,” Eddie added petulantly.</p><p>Richie didn’t have the heart to tell him he genuinely <em>had </em>forgotten about that part of the story so he chuckled and said, “Right right right, that little thing,” cringing a little over The Look Eddie shot down at him.</p><p>What Richie <em>didn’t </em>mention was how every Deadlight dream started with him standing in front of that crowd where he’d bombed the night Mike called, the taste of ‘Richie <em>Trashmouth</em> Tozier’ on his lips like the faded memory of kiss, the stage lights blinding him, morphing, <em>spinning </em>until he was watching those three lights dim in Eddie’s wide, horrified eyes.</p><p>The words <em>stage fright </em>had never been so literal in Richie’s fucking life.</p><p>“So I’m taking a hiatus, okay?” Richie said, a little clumsily, calming himself with how warm and vivid Eddie was, still sitting in his lap. Thoughts like those were best left to his nightmares. “I’ll try writing my own stuff again. And I landed a role on an animated show so I won’t fall completely off the grid. And Steve’ll make sure I keep raking in enough money to keep us all fed so… yeah.”</p><p>“Is that what you want?” Eddie asked and Richie sucked in enough air that Eddie rose a few inches on his lap.</p><p>“Eds,” Richie said, cracking himself open because Eddie’s hands were on his chest, resting there so gently, the heat of his palms sinking through Richie’s shirt and trying to set him on fire. “What I <em>really </em>want is to be with you and Mike and Bev and Ben and Bill, like, <em>all the time</em>. I want to make up for the thirty fucking years that were stolen from us. I want to learn how to cook a turkey for Thanksgiving and probably set the house on fire. I want to take you to fucking Disneyland and force feed you churros. I want to get a house and fill it with all the Losers and make crappy dick jokes until one of you murders me.”</p><p>Eddie was smiling so fondly that Richie’s stupid brain kept going, thankfully not out loud.</p><p>‘<em>I want to fall asleep because I’m tired, not because I’m drunk. I want to crawl into bed with you and stumble into the kitchen the next morning to find you grumbling at the coffee machine. I want to spend my life with </em>you<em>, Eds, and all the other Losers too.</em>’</p><p>“I’d say I’ll miss your shitty stand up,” Eddie finally said, chewing on his bottom lip, Richie fucking <em>magnetized </em>by the sight of white teeth against pink skin. “But I guess I’ll be getting the live show from now on, huh?”</p><p>Richie laughed, giving into temptation and squeezing Eddie’s thighs under his hands, just a little, just so he’d have the finer details of the shape of him for later rumination. “A private show, Eds, twenty-four seven. Just for you.”</p><p>Eddie quirked his eyebrow, eyes brushfire hot when he smiled. “I don’t hate the sound of that,” Eddie said, and something shifted inside of Richie - something so firmly planted, so tied to Richie’s bones that the tug of it pulling loose actually hurt.</p><p>Because Eddie was here in Los Angeles. Moving in with Richie. Leaving his wife. Talking Richie into cooking meals with green things in them so they’d both live longer and asking for Richie’s useless opinion on responsible cars.</p><p>He was also sitting on Richie’s lap liked he owned the space and getting feisty-feral over any mention of Steve and fucking <em>glowing </em>when Richie promised him he’d be living with the Tozier Comedy Hour from then on, that possessive gleam to his eyes not nearly as unrecognizable as it should be.</p><p>And once, a very long time ago, Eddie had a crush on a boy.</p><p>That thing inside Richie shifted and pulled away, a drain un-stoppering, and a rush of sticky-terrifying possibility flooded into all the empty spaces in Richie’s guts, one awful question repeating itself like a record jerking over the same line of a song, grating and horrifying and jarring enough to echo even once the music stopped.</p><p>Was it possible?</p><p><em>Could </em>it be possible?</p><p>Did Richie have <em>a chance </em>with Eddie Kaspbrak?</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><i>Does</i> he?</p><p>Find me on twitter @BadNotso</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter Eleven</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: mentions of biphobia, internalized homophobia, external homophobia, and mentions of racism</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The list of things they wanted from a house slowly grew. To Eddie’s eternal frustration, Richie initially kept his requests small. A pool and a hot tub. Enough bedrooms for all the Losers to stay over at the same time. Something with a nice view (though of what, Richie seemed unconcerned even though in southern California, a view could consist of the sea, the mountains, or the Chinese fucking Theater depending on where they lived). Any time Eddie asked for more input, Richie gave him a half-hearted shrug.</p><p>Eddie, who had spent his entire life around people who were maybe <em>too </em>opinionated, was slowly getting closer to pulling out all his hair. Scratch that. If anyone was going to go bald over this, it would be Richie. Eddie would make fucking sure of it. The asshole had no idea what he wanted and seemingly would be just as happy in a former meth lab in Van Nuys as he would be in a mansion on the beach in Malibu.</p><p>But, with a little trial and error, Eddie figured out Richie responded better to direct questions. <em>Do you like this house?</em> <em>Why</em>? <em>What don’t you like about that one</em>? There wasn’t an immediate rhyme or reason to Richie’s opinions but when he was pressed, he could usually generate some sort of answer after a truly disturbing amount of thought.</p><p>“Too much cement,” Richie sounded out once, his chin on Eddie’s shoulder while Eddie showed him the most ostentatious house he’d seen yet - a glass monstrosity on a hill above the Valley that almost defied gravity with an expansive terrace overhanging a cliff. The terrace was a stretch of infinity pools and white cement lined with a glass fence. It screamed ‘<em>look at me</em>’ without any subtlety and that was Richie in a nutshell.</p><p>“You want a grassy yard?” Eddie asked, relieved to finally get <em>something</em> of Richie’s taste.</p><p>“Yeah,” he hummed, the breath of it stirring the hair in front of Eddie’s ear. “Ideally there would be trees too, ya know? Maybe two real close together?”</p><p>Eddie stared blankly through his computer screen for three seconds before seething, “<em>What the fuck</em>…?”</p><p>“Just kidding Eds, don't worry about it!” he hurriedly amended, scooting his chair back and ambling into the kitchen to do the dishes. </p><p>Eddie glared at Richie’s turned back and said, “Jesus Rich, no wonder you're worried about writing your own material,” carefully pulling up the spreadsheet listing their desired features and adding ‘<em>trees (two close together…????)</em>’ even though he had a million follow up question he already knew Richie wouldn't answer considering the idiot had taken to belting out the chorus of ‘You Spin me Round’ like he was hoping the neighbors would call the cops.</p><p>Eddie's ideas were more practical. He wanted to live within a 30 minute drive from his office in Tarzana. He wanted privacy or the illusion of it. And he wanted a big, fancy bathroom.</p><p>“I <em>knew</em> you had a shower kink,” Richie crowed when he read that off Eddie's spreadsheet. “You like getting <em>dirty</em> while you get clean, Eds?”</p><p>Eddie purposely didn’t acknowledge that statement, or the way Richie’s playfully suggestive voice kept hanging out in his head, long after the words had been spoken, particularly making a reappearance while he showered.</p><p>Eddie entirely attributed that to his new reintroduction to porn.</p><p>Not that he was going crazy with it or anything! Richie was home a lot of the time, distracting Eddie with bad jokes or convincing Eddie to watch bad movies in bed or rambling at Eddie to practice his various (shockingly <em>not </em>bad) Voices and that put them practically on top of each other, especially since they still hadn’t bought a couch (Eddie didn’t want to commit to one until they had a house to put it in). But when Richie slipped out for an audition or a meeting or a recording, <em>occasionally</em> Eddie would lock himself in the bathroom and scroll through porn on his phone and Eddie couldn’t decide how depressing it was that the simple, suddenly guiltless act was nothing short of a minor revelation.</p><p>He still blamed Richie for the first three searches he typed into pornhub: ‘<em>shower sex</em>’, ‘<em>shower fuck</em>’, and ‘<em>shower masturbation</em>.’ Which, considering what had happened to him in the bathroom of the Townhouse in Derry (Bowers’ filthy fucking knife stabbed through his cheek, the blade depressing his tongue), Eddie was a little surprised showers hadn’t been crossed off the list of things he could ever find sexy again.</p><p>Then again, stabbing Bowers back through the shower curtain had been cathartic in a way he should probably feel bad about but really couldn’t talk himself into, the memory of it feeding the voice that kept reminding himself he <em>could </em>be brave. So maybe the event had the opposite effect on his psyche than the expected outcome (and his own childish, taunting voice once again cheered, ‘<em>fuck you, Bowers</em>’ in the back of his head).</p><p>Plus, big fancy bathrooms generally didn’t have shower curtains or stupid little sinks with medicine cabinet mirrors over them so he was extra validated in wanting to go a little crazy with the bathroom of whatever future home he and Richie found.</p><p>The fact that he had repeated all his searches on pornhub <em>gay</em> with more intriguing results was probably also Richie’s fault, his dramatic coming out opening up a train of thought Eddie had never once wandered down before.</p><p>Honestly Richie was responsible for a lot of the mess in Eddie’s head, increased libido not exempt. Between the dirty jokes and the fact that Richie refused to wear anything over his boxer briefs to bed, <em>not to mention </em>how nice it was to sleep next to someone warm and soft and amenable to a little bit of accidental cuddling, Eddie was getting hit full blast with more <em>skin </em>and <em>erotica</em> than he’d been exposed to in years.</p><p>That was probably why he’d woken up with a fucking boner three days in a row, his hips trying to inch towards Richie’s heat. Or hopefully it was more related to the fact that all the prescription drugs he’d been taking were fully out of his system now and without them his sex drive slipped back into a place not unexpected for a healthy forty year old man who’d deprived himself the joys of sex for nearly a decade. The noticeable decrease in his depression and anxiety also probably played a part, as well as the not-insignificant detail that he hadn’t spoken directly to Myra since he’d told her he was asking for a divorce and that left him lighter than ever – and apparently also <em>harder </em>than ever.</p><p>In all the worst ways, it was a lot like being a teenager again. There was absolutely <em>no </em>reason to spring a half-chub when Richie mimed a blowjob with a curled fist near his mouth, his tongue pushing out his cheek to sell the illusion (Richie’s long ago comment about blowjobs and his supposed skills still present in Eddie’s mind like an uninvited guest). Nor was it practical to spend a little too much time watching water drip from Richie’s shower-wet hair down his well-defined back while Eddie inspected his healed scar. And Eddie had <em>no </em>fucking clue why he spent so long dwelling on Richie’s surprisingly strong arms or how, if Eddie pressed in just a little closer than most friends would walk side by side, he could get Richie to sling that arm over Eddie’s shoulder like it belonged there.</p><p>Moral of the story was, Eddie was <em>horny</em> and maybe also touch starved. And he didn’t really know what to do with that. Thanks to his mother and Myra, Eddie had been living with almost no sexuality or physical intimacy that wasn’t <em>cloying</em> for the entirety of his adult life so how the fuck did normal adults… hook up? Date? Fuck each other? Eddie had no fucking clue and besides that, he <em>really</em> felt underequipped in too many departments to even <em>imagine</em> including someone else in his late-to-the-party explorations.</p><p>When he was a teenager, being horny had one obvious solution: masturbate. Living with Sonia Kaspbrak didn’t make that easy – she had a way of looking at him that made him think she <em>knew </em>every time he took too long in the shower. His bedroom was too risky; his mom had a tendency to loiter outside his door when he shut it during the day and Richie would show up often enough at night that the risk of being caught <em>in hand </em>was too high to tempt Eddie.</p><p>Not that Richie would be offended – the asshole was upsettingly open about his own masturbation practices (his in-depth descriptions unfortunately the catalyst to Eddie trying it out for himself – a fact he’d take to his fucking grave) and the most Richie would probably do is make a few jokes and then leave – but Eddie didn’t want to deter Richie from seeking him out at night when he obviously needed the company. So Eddie kept his ‘private time’ to the shower where everything was clean and any evidence of his actions was immediately washed down the drain.</p><p>Twenty years later, Eddie was sticking with his tried and true method of masturbation, thank you very fucking much. To be fair, that was probably wise. He had zero confidence in his skills as a lover and besides that, his porn search history was proof enough he had some shit to figure out about himself.</p><p>Shit like: <em>Was </em>he gay? And <em>since when</em>?</p><p>Not that Eddie actually thought he was all-the-way gay. After a little bit of research, bisexual made a lot more sense, even though when he was growing up, ‘bisexual’ pretty much meant the same thing as ‘attention-seeking.’ That’s what everyone said about Tracy Delamore, at least, when she told the wrong person that she’d kissed a girl at camp and liked it just as much as she liked kissing boys. But apparently that had been super shitty of everyone because bisexuality was <em>a thing</em> and that was probably what Eddie was.</p><p>Because Eddie <em>did</em> like women, his horrible choice in a spouse not-withstanding. He thought they were beautiful and soft and at times mysterious in a way that could be sexy. But (and this was news to Eddie in some ways but also very obvious in hindsight) he also liked men. Chest hair and broad shoulders and strong jaws. Big hands and stubble and a physical relatability that made men… less mysterious and therefore less terrifying than women.</p><p>And maybe it was the novelty of discovering this new side of himself (or maybe it was the fact he was still reeling from the two horrible relationships he’d had with women and needed a fucking breather) but men were looking a lot more appealing lately.</p><p>And <em>fuck you very much Richie</em> because yeah, so what, Eddie liked shower sex. Or the <em>idea </em>of shower sex. It wasn’t like he’d ever had it before. But it probably wasn’t an accident that Eddie had sexually imprinted on the bathroom when it was the safest place for him to jerk off for the last <em>thirty fucking years</em>, so much so that his very specific bathroom related trauma didn’t override it. And <em>so what </em>if that meant he wanted a nice shower. At least that was easier to understand that <em>two trees close together</em>. Asshole.</p><p>The first house they looked at in Westwood was a total flop. It had a pool and a very carefully cultivated area of grass with a few trees (close together, per Richie’s insane request) and most of the walls were fucking windows so really there was nothing <em>but</em> view. Despite all that, both of them grimaced the second they walked in.</p><p>It looked like the set of a well-funded but overwritten TV drama about rich white people. Those were Richie’s words not Eddie’s but he was unmistakably right. The only redeeming feature was the master bathroom which, besides having the most ridiculous, ostentatious bathtub Eddie had ever seen (and immediately fallen in love with), it also had a walk-in shower bigger than the kitchen in Richie’s apartment with more water settings than Eddie could possibly name.</p><p>“What do you think Eds?” Richie goaded, letting himself into the massive shower stall, laying his forearms against the glass and arching his back, pushing his ass out in an <em>insanely </em>sexual pose right in front of the fucking real estate agent who struggled to cover his embarrassed snort with a cough. “You could shoot a fucking porno in here!”</p><p>Then he started panting, face contorted into an imitation of pleasure that somehow looked significantly more sincere and attractive than most of the videos Eddie had been watching which just, like, <em>what the fuck</em>.</p><p>“This doing anything for you?” Richie asked and Eddie would have rather died than answer honestly.</p><p>“Yeah, it’s turning me off the idea of sex entirely now get the fuck out of there before your gross imagination leaves a watermark on the glass.”</p><p>The fact that Eddie masturbated furiously that night during his pre-sleep shower was completely unrelated to anything that happened in that fucking house.</p><p>The second house they saw, Richie honest to fucking god started laughing the moment they pulled into the driveway and was in tears by the time they made it past the foyer.</p><p>“It has a fucking <em>ballroom</em>, Eds. What the fuck are we gonna do with a <em>ballroom</em>?”</p><p>And it did have a ballroom. Complete with the kind of embellished moldings that wouldn’t look out of place in a regency-era castle. The yard was nice-ish though, or at least Eddie caught Richie critically eyeing the palm trees lining the path to the pool (the real estate agent kept calling it a <em>grotto</em>, fucking gross) but it wouldn’t have even warranted a viewing if it weren’t ridiculously close to Eddie’s office and quirky enough that Richie had just as good a chance of falling in love with it as hating it.</p><p>The third place they saw, despite Eddie’s ingrained distrust of his own opinions, was <em>the one</em> and he knew it the second he pulled Richie’s Mustang into the driveway.</p><p>It looked like an actual house which was a nice change; not a glass cube like the first one or some discount pantheon like the second one. It had a big yard on all sides (one that wasn’t manicured to within an inch of its life) and an outdoor fireplace and a sturdy arched pergola which Richie bizarrely really liked the look of. The pool and hot tub were big and practical without being gaudy and it was too easy to picture the Losers lounging around in the grass and recreating their days at the quarry.</p><p>The inside was dated and, at times, downright ugly. The tiles in the bathroom – actually the entire master bathroom in general – was old fashioned but Richie stole one look at Eddie’s face and said, “We could always redo the bathroom, Eds,” like he had pilfered the thought straight from Eddie’s brain.</p><p>Honestly a lot of the house could use a refresher but the actual spaces weren’t bad and a lot of that would be fixed once they pulled down all the hideous wallpaper. It was less than half the asking price of most the other houses Eddie had found that were big enough to fit the Losers, and in theory, once Eddie knocked ‘find a house’ off his list of things to do, he’d be itching for a new project…</p><p>The house was nestled in Topanga Canyon so it was private and quiet and beautiful. It was in a very small gated community but it was nestled against the mountains so the only real neighbors to speak of were across the street. They’d be closer to Bill’s bougie mansion (which they still hadn’t seen – he was due back from set later that week) and the drive to Eddie’s office was closer to forty minutes with traffic but… it felt <em>right</em>.</p><p>When they both folded into Richie’s Mustang after the viewing, Eddie started the car in silence and snuck a glance at Richie who was already shooting Eddie an uncharacteristically timid look.</p><p>“So… what did you think?” Richie hedged, buckling himself in.</p><p>Eddie idled the car out of the driveway slowly, soaking up the street view. The house looked a little suburban in comparison to some of the insane LA architecture he’d seen during house hunting (ranch style with a few overgrown trees in the front yard and untidy flower beds trailing the path to the front door) but the impression that left was homey and familiar and well-loved.</p><p>“It would need a lot of work,” Eddie answered, thinking of that hideous wallpaper and the worse tile in the master bath.</p><p>“I don’t hate the idea of...” Richie started, trailing off while his face scrunched up,</p><p>“Making it our own?” Eddie supplied. Richie smiled at that, shy and kind of dumb, and it definitely didn’t make him look <em>sweet </em>because the idiot was too old and too big to ever be called sweet.</p><p>“Yeah, that,” Richie mumbled through his grin, lifting a hand to fiddle with his glasses. That word cropped up again in Eddie’s head unbidden. <em>Sweet</em>.</p><p>By the time they made it back to the apartment, Richie was ready to put down an offer on the house and it was only Eddie’s practical sense that held him back from throwing all his cards in too. They’d seen <em>three houses</em> – that wasn’t enough to make a choice. And even though Richie’s apartment was tiny and ridiculous, they weren’t in a <em>rush</em>.</p><p>Richie, as always, seemed perfectly content to let Eddie dictate that decision with an easy, “Whatever you say, Eds,” that still made something in Eddie’s stomach squirm. “But it’s top of the list.”</p><p>“Agreed,” Eddie answered, wondering how easily they could share the same opinion on a fucking <em>house </em>when they fought over what to watch on Netflix almost nightly.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>A few days later Eddie found himself stretched out on Richie’s bed, Richie’s voice loud in his ears through the earbuds plugged into his phone as he listened to the podcast interview Richie had been agonizing over all week.</p><p>Richie was at a recording session for the cartoon gig he’d landed and obviously already loved. Cracking jokes and doing Voices and getting paid, “<em>Living the fucking dream</em>,” he’d crooned at Eddie on his way out the door, only partially sarcastic. Eddie suspected there was something to be said about the anonymity of it too – the fact Richie wasn’t on stage trying to school his expressive features into something less wounded - instead he got to be himself behind a mic and a team of animators.</p><p>Eddie was glad for him. He’d been worried about Richie’s career shift, so much of his personality consisting of being loud and needing attention. Voice acting still gave him that; he got to be funny and dumb and make people laugh, but he had a chance to heal and recover as well without too much public scrutiny.</p><p>Part of that healing probably included the interview he’d done, the one Eddie had been desperate to listen to since it came out the night before but Richie had flatly refused to hear it himself and then (seemingly to make sure Eddie wouldn’t have a chance to put in his earbuds) he insisted Eddie help him try out a recipe for shakshuka even though Eddie knew exactly how useless he was in the kitchen.</p><p>So now, alone, without Richie to demand he cut tomatoes or measure spices or distracting him by jabbering in Voices from his new show, Eddie sank into listening to the interview.</p><p><em>Dis/Intercourse</em> (the podcast the two of them had binged before deciding it was the right one for Richie) actually had a strong hand in Eddie’s recent sexual re-education and Richie’s too in all likelihood. It was a reliable source of information about the full gamut of human sexuality and included insightful interviews from a range of people including sex workers and doctors, therapists and bloggers.</p><p>Eddie very much got the impression the hosts themselves were <em>shocked </em>to hear from Richie (who was more famous than Richie seemed to realize; Eddie still had a hard time reconciling the dumb kid he knew since grade school with the well-known comedian he’d watched crack jokes on Netflix) and were wildly overjoyed to have him as a guest on their relatively small show.</p><p>But that was part of the appeal, at least in Richie’s mind. The hosts (three kids probably half Richie’s age: Bailey, Gavin, and Cass) weren’t so up their own asses that when Richie sent them a slightly panicked email the night before he met up with them to record (somewhat incoherently confessing that he’d recently lost a childhood friend and that coming out was fucking <em>terrifying </em>and that he was probably the worst gay man on earth), they very kindly told him he wouldn’t have to answer anything that made him uncomfortable and that he could request they not include anything he regretted saying and that he <em>probably</em> wasn’t the worst gay man on earth. The emphasis on <em>probably</em>, at least, made Richie laugh.</p><p>Overall, Eddie approved of them. He’d dropped Richie off at the apartment building where they recorded, Richie’s knee jangling against the car door the whole ride while he half-jokingly tried to talk Eddie into damaging his beautiful fucking car just to delay the interview (not that Eddie <em>needed </em>to drive Richie around anymore – his back was healed enough that he wasn’t likely to rip it open – but Richie was too anxious to go alone and, if Eddie were being <em>completely </em>honest, he’d fought the instinct to walk him all the way up to the door when he saw how pale Richie got when he climbed out of the car).</p><p>Thankfully, when Eddie had picked him up a few hours later, Richie was much more relaxed, standing on the curb and talking to the person Eddie recognized as Bailey from the <em>Dis/Intercourse</em> cover-image. Tall, dyed blue hair, and quirkily fashionable in a way Bev would probably lose her mind over. Eddie really hoped Richie wasn’t flirting with them. Bailey couldn’t be older than twenty-five and that was just way too young for an old man like Richie.</p><p>Even though Richie was already laughing when Eddie spotted him, his face visibly brightened when his eyes met Eddie’s and that same little knot that always tied itself up when they were apart loosened.</p><p>“Eddie!” Richie cried happily, bending in half to peer in through the open window.</p><p>“Oh, so this is the famous Eddie,” Bailey had said, ducking to get a look too. Eddie wasn’t sure what that meant, nor why he liked the idea of Richie talking about him so much, but Richie was turning pink in the bright California sunshine and Eddie didn’t want the bastard to burn.</p><p>“Hey,” Eddie greeted, a little nervous. He’d been listening to Bailey’s voice <em>a lot </em>the last few days as Richie prepped for his interview and Bailey was his favorite host because they were the funniest. Seeing them lay a familiar hand on Richie’s shoulder, however, made Eddie rethink that assessment.</p><p>“Okay, gotta go, gotta go,” Richie sing-songed, shaking Bailey’s hand and thanking them, maybe a little weirdly sincerely, but Bailey accepted it with good grace and waved them off.</p><p>“You talking shit about me again?” Eddie asked as soon as Richie finished buckling himself in.</p><p>“<em>Noooooo</em>,” Richie insisted, lying his fucking ass off, but Eddie’s stomach squirmed at the thought that Richie brought him up when he wasn’t around, bringing him into spaces he couldn’t occupy. It lit a fire in Eddie’s stomach to think that maybe Richie thought about him when he wasn’t around, the same way Eddie had spent the last few hours struggling to work at a nearby café because he couldn’t stop wondering if Richie was doing okay.</p><p>After a lot of prying, Richie admitted it had been a pretty decent experience. “Free therapy,” he’d called it, grinning that stupid grin of his that Eddie really liked even though it made him look like a sock puppet.</p><p>So Eddie wasn’t <em>nervous </em>or anything ridiculous like that, listening to Cass introduce Richie and trying not to smile in reflex at the sound of Richie’s stupid huffy laughter pumped directly into his ear. But it was also kind of weird knowing Richie was about to open up with three strangers and the <em>entire fucking world </em>when he still hadn’t even admitted to his whole tragic-crush-on-Stan thing even though Eddie had been trying his best to pry it out of him.</p><p>Jesus, had Richie always been this good at keeping secrets? If Richie talked about Stan on the podcast, Eddie was going to <em>lose his shit</em>.</p><p>“Okay,” Gavin’s voice faded back over the intro song. “Comedian Richie Tozier is here and I’ve gotta ask, man: why us? Why <em>Dis/Intercourse</em>?”</p><p>“Hoo boy,” Richie started, voice nasal and friendly but a little fake. He didn’t sound as loose as he did when he shot the shit over dinner with Eddie. It was closer to the way he pitched his voice while making ridiculous melon-related puns to the utterly unenthused employee at the grocery checkout line. God, they could never go back to that Pavilions again. “Uh, you want the nice answer or the real answer?”</p><p>“Are those mutually exclusive?” Bailey asked, wry humor in their voice.</p><p>“More mutually exclusive than my dick!” Richie sing-songed and then literally groaned in revulsion, mimicking the exact noise Eddie had just smothered into Richie’s pillow. “Ugh, can we just, fuck, sorry, I’m nervous. Dick jokes come out fast and hard when I’m nervous.”</p><p>“Same way I came last night!” Cass seamlessly contributed, smoothing over the moment, Richie bursting into relieved laughter.</p><p>“Okay, why <em>Dis/Intercourse</em>,” Richie hummed, forcing himself back on track. “Well, I’ve been learning a lot listening to it.”</p><p>“Really?” Gavin asked, genuinely surprised. “Like what?”</p><p>“Like, I’d never heard the term ‘cocksicle’ until I started tuning in and now that’s exclusively what I call my dick.”</p><p>“Ah, my life’s work is complete,” Bailey sighed dreamily into the mic. Everyone chuckled, even Eddie.</p><p>Letting his laughter trail off naturally, Richie added, “And, you know, I also learned that I don’t have to be, like, ashamed and super secretive about being gay or whatever.”</p><p>There was a beat of heavy silence before Cass breathed, “No,” a little shakily. “No, you do not.”</p><p>“Absolutely not. Nothing to be ashamed of, Richie,” Gavin agreed, Bailey humming along with him.</p><p>“See, that’s the other reason I picked <em>Dis/Intercourse</em>. You guys are <em>nice</em>. And I thought you’d be a little more gentle with me while I’m still… new… to a lot of this.”</p><p>“We know how to be gentle,” Bailey quipped, a wink obvious in their voice, and Eddie’s lips pressed down.</p><p>“And that brings up the whole point of why you’re here, right?” Gavin explained. “Your ‘<em>I heart dick</em>’ tweet.”</p><p>“And the subsequent fumbling clarifications of a man in panic,” Richie laughed.</p><p>“Oh, I liked those,” Bailey interjected kindly. “Felt sincere.”</p><p>“Which it was, right?” Gavin hedged gently. “Sincere?”</p><p>“The panic? Very much so.” Eddie rolled his eyes. “Also I absolutely heart dick. Morning, noon, and night.”</p><p>“Samsies!” Bailey cheered and the dim slap of a high five was caught by the mic. Richie chuckled again and Eddie frowned, flopping over to squeeze Richie’s pillow to his chest, breathing in the familiar smell. Bailey was attractive in that quirky, colorful way that drew attention and Richie, the consummate idiot, was undeniably drawn to quirky and colorful if his stupid shirts were any indication.</p><p>“What spurred the decision to come out?” Cass asked, soft voice breaking Eddie out of his fuming.</p><p>“IV pain medication,” Richie deadpanned (Eddie mumbled “<em>Idiot</em>,” quietly to himself) and then, when the silence dragged on half a second too long, Richie hurried to add, “And a near death experience, I guess. Turns out those re-order your priorities.”</p><p>“Oh shit,” Cass breathed and Richie’s low chuckles slid right into Eddie’s ears, soothing the spike of adrenaline that always flared when he thought of the cave and the claw and the clown.</p><p>Gavin clarified, “You’ve been illusive in some of your tweets about your recent stay at a hospital in Maine. You want to tell us a little about what happened there?”</p><p>“Oh, you know, it’s the classic story of a hometown reunion gone wrong. You drink a little too much. You realize all your friends took way better care of themselves and are fucking <em>hot</em> – like <em>crazy </em>hot – what the fuck. You hang out in an old abandoned house and it falls down on you…”</p><p>“Sounds like a bad weekend.”</p><p>“Ha! Yeah. Not the best. <em>Buuuuuutttt</em>,” Richie paused, and it was too easy for Eddie to picture Richie’s stupid shy little smirk just from the tone of his voice, “almost-dying isn’t the worst when you’re doing it with the right people.”</p><p>“Friends?”</p><p>“Are these friends perhaps fashion designer Beverly Marsh and author Bill Denborough?” Bailey interjected. “They’ve been showing you a lot of support recently on Twitter.”</p><p>“They are indeed among the people who stupidly call themselves my friends. Can I name drop and add in Ben Hanscom, god’s gift to mankind?”</p><p>“<em>Famous architect </em>Ben Hanscom?” Cass gasped. “<em>Mega-hottie </em>Ben Hanscom?!”</p><p>“Yup.”</p><p>“What the fuck?”</p><p>“<em>I know right</em>?” Richie laughed, delighted as he always was to talk about the Losers.</p><p>“<em>Jesus, you fucking dork</em>,” Eddie mumbled into Richie’s pillow.</p><p>“Ben is, like, criminally beautiful with a soul to fucking match. What is he doing hanging out with me?”</p><p>“<em>Because he</em> loves<em> you, asshole</em>,” Eddie grumbled, frowning. “<em>We all do</em>.”</p><p>“And you’re all from the same hometown?” Gavin asked.</p><p>Richie hummed his ascent.</p><p>“What the fuck’s in the water that you all wound up <em>famous</em>?” Bailey demanded in fake fury.</p><p>“<em>Don’t fucking ask</em>,” Eddie mumbled at the same time Richie answered, “Oh man, you <em>definitely</em> don’t want to know.”</p><p>“So you get into an accident, wind up hospitalized, and think ‘<em>now’s the time to come out</em>’? Why?”</p><p>Richie, after a brief beat, very seriously responded, “I wanted to be brave,” and even though it was just a word – just a single word out of thousands in the English language – <em>brave </em>felt like <em>their </em>word. Like Richie was reaching out a hand through time and space to cup Eddie’s cheek, the same way he’d done in the cistern. Like he had snuck Eddie into the conversation without anyone but them knowing. Like he’d called Eddie’s fucking name.</p><p>Eddie’s stomach squirmed in a way that felt nothing like indigestion.</p><p>Gavin’s voice interrupted the moment even though Eddie would have liked to linger in it longer. “How long have you been keeping your sexuality a secret?”</p><p>“My entire fucking life.”</p><p>“Do you want to talk a little about why?”</p><p>“I – uh – yeah,” Richie mumbled, almost more to himself. “I guess I do, that’s why I’m here, right?”</p><p>Richie took a deep breath which Eddie subconsciously imitated and it was <em>so weird </em>to know that Richie had been going through this nearly a week ago without Eddie getting any of the finer details until <em>now</em>. Impulsively, he paused the podcast and opened up his messages with Richie.</p><p>But what did he want to say?</p><p>‘<em>I’m proud of you</em>,’ felt stupid even if it was true.</p><p>‘<em>You ARE brave</em>,’ wasn’t a bad option but he had a feeling that would make Richie cry and even though Eddie kind of liked the thought of that, Richie was at work so it probably wasn’t the right time.</p><p>‘<em>You’re so fucking stupid and you make me crazy</em>,’ was probably closest to what Eddie <em>always </em>wanted to tell Richie but he’d already said that twice before Richie went to work so he figured that would only be repeating himself.</p><p>When nothing felt right after a minute of staring blankly at his phone screen, he pulled Richie’s broken glasses out his pocket where they’d been digging into his thigh and, after a moment of contemplation, slid them onto his own face. The world distorted uncomfortably, the fractured lens splitting the world into blurry pieces.</p><p>This was how Richie saw the world without his glasses.</p><p>Eddie blinked, eyes straining, and hit the play button on his phone.</p><p>There was a brief moment of quiet before Richie started to speak, right into Eddie’s ear.</p><p>“So here’s the thing: Where I grew up, being gay was a death sentence. That’s not an exaggeration or a joke, it’s a fact of life. Just a month ago there was a young guy, Adrian Mellon –” there was that name again, the one Richie said in the hospital, the one that stopped the nurse asking questions, “- you mighta heard about him in the news. He was murdered while he was out on a date with his boyfriend. Beaten and thrown over a bridge because he was brave enough to be openly gay in the worst fucking town in America.”</p><p>Eddie’s mouth opened on a silent gasp. Eddie remembered now, the death that kicked off Pennywise’s return. Eddie had been in a blind, terrified panic; so much so he never gave any amount of thought to the almost-too-old-for-It boy who became the first victim after a group of Derry fuck-heads threw him off a bridge.</p><p><em>Richie </em>hadn’t forgotten, though. He’d read that article and latched onto him, onto Adrian Mellon, a young gay man going to a carnival with the person he loved. How much of himself did Richie see in that young man? No wonder he so badly wanted to run.</p><p>Eddie flipped Richie’s glasses up to his forehead and rubbed at the moisture gathering against his eyelashes.</p><p>Richie kept going. “Once I wore a floral printed shirt to school – a fucking <em>Hawaiian </em>shirt, the thing was a hand-me-down from my dad – and this guy, this fucking shithead of a guy who tormented me through high school, slammed my head into a locker and broke my fucking nose. For wearing a shirt with <em>flowers </em>on it. And that was a pretty ordinary day for me.”</p><p>The craziest thing was Eddie half-remembered that. Or rather, he remembered waiting for Richie at the bike rack after school until Stan found him and told him Richie had been missing the last three periods. When they checked the nurses office (a regular haunt of Richie’s thanks to Derry High’s many bullies and Richie’s inability to keep his mouth shut and his head down), she told them Richie’s mom had taken him to the hospital to reset his nose.</p><p>The words ‘<em>Richie</em>’ and ‘<em>hospital</em>’ in the same sentence were enough to send Eddie into a frenzy, the old burn of asthma-actually-an-anxiety-attack pulling at his lungs. But Stan talked him down and drove him to Richie’s where they let themselves into his basement and waited for him to come home.</p><p>When Richie finally clamored down his basement stairs a few hours later, he’d brushed off Eddie and Stan’s questions with a few jokes even though he had a mountain of gauze on the bridge of his nose fucking up how his glasses sat on his face. Eddie had figured it was Bowers’ successor Norton Flatley who had done it but Richie never explained <em>why</em>.</p><p>Then again, kids like Flatley - kids like <em>Bowers</em> – kids like the ones who threw Adrian Mellon over a bridge - never really needed a why.</p><p>“You were bullied?” Cass asked softly.</p><p>“<em>Everyone </em>was bullied, it’s not like I was special,” Richie scoffed but Eddie wasn’t so sure that was true. Richie <em>had </em>been targeted specifically, even more so than the other Losers, his face a consistent target for fists well after Eddie and Stan and Ben faded into the general herd and slipped unnoticed passed assholes like Flatley.</p><p>As a kid Eddie never understood <em>why</em> except that Richie was bright and loud and noticeable. Even when he was young, Richie was obviously meant for better things than Derry while Flatley was gonna be stuck pumping gas until he killed himself overdosing on Meth. Maybe Flatley had thought he could punch that potential out of Richie, keep him trapped in the same dead-end life everyone was so afraid of in high school. Misery loves company, after all.</p><p>Richie continued, “But the bullies had a very specific taste in slurs and I was pulling out all the stops on being as <em>not gay </em>as I possibly could but they acted like they knew anyways and those fuckers made sure I hated myself for it. Like ‘maybe if I wasn’t so into dick, they’d stop breaking my fucking glasses,’ you know? Which obviously wasn’t true, I know that now that I’m not a concussed fourteen-year-old nursing two black eyes. They probably didn’t even <em>know </em>I was gay. All the derogatory shit they threw around were blanket insults back then, they just so happened to be <em>true</em> when they were directed at me and I guess I internalized a lot of it.”</p><p>“Okay, I’m sensing a whole lot of trauma to unpack there,” Bailey quipped with just the right amount of humor in their tone that Eddie could finally pull in a shuddering breath. Richie snorted.</p><p>“Oh yeah, my therapist is making fucking bank.”</p><p>“So eventually you move out of your hometown and then what?” Cass asked.</p><p>“And then I live in repression for another twenty years.”</p><p>“Yeesh,” Bailey hummed.</p><p>“Obviously not the best decision I’ve ever made – that I <em>kept </em>making – but…” and Eddie could practically <em>see </em>the stupid jazz hands Richie was undoubtedly doing. “…<em>tada</em>.”</p><p>“Did you ever think about coming out before now?” Gavin queried.</p><p>“I mean, not really? I shoved that shit way-the-fuck down cause living openly or whatever never seemed like a viable option.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>Richie sighed and Eddie could almost hear the scrape of his hand against his stubbled cheek, a move he did when he was feeling overwhelmed and one that was too easy for Eddie to match with the tone of that sigh.</p><p>“I’m gonna really give away my age here,” Richie laughed, his voice muffled occasionally like he was rubbing a hand over his mouth. “I’m a fucking dinosaur compared to you bright-eyed young people so, like, I just want to put a stamp on this that says ‘<em>this is a dated way of thinking</em>,’ okay? I don’t want – the <em>last </em>fucking thing I want is people hearing this shit and thinking it’s normal to feel this way.”</p><p>“But it is, Richie,” Cass gently reminded him. “We are all products of our time. There are so many people struggling with these exact issues – people older and younger than you. And it’s good you realize things have changed but a lot of your formative moments happened, when? In the Neolithic age?”</p><p>Richie guffawed at that and again Eddie realized this podcast was exactly the right choice. They had the same reliance on jokes as Richie did but they managed it in a way that kept the mood light without moving too far away from the topic, landing humor in <em>just </em>the right place to keep Richie from bolting out the door to escape his own semi-forced sincerity.</p><p>Richie, still laughing, bit back, “It was <em>the nineties</em>, thank you very fucking much. But seriously folks, moisturize or whatever the fuck it is Ben does to look like a goddamn Adonis. Or else you’ll wind up looking like me.”</p><p>“Eh, I don’t see anything to complain about,” Bailey chimed <em>very flirtatiously </em>and when Richie giggled a little insanely, something fierce and angry wrapped a hand around Eddie’s heart and squeezed.</p><p>“So why wasn’t coming out viable?” Gavin asked again, bringing the group back to topic.</p><p>Richie sighed. “In the nineties, fuck, all the way into the aughts, <em>even now in twenty-fucking-sixteen</em>, visible gay men most often come in one very specific package. And that package – I mean let’s be real here - that package isn’t <em>me</em>. I’m not Nathan fucking Lane in <em>The Birdcage</em>. I’m not Jack on <em>Will and Grace</em>. I’m not one of the Fab Five.</p><p>“Now - post being <em>woke </em>or whatever - I know full fucking well a gay man can look like anything - can look like <em>me </em>in all my underwhelming, unmarketable glory. Fuck, there’s a whole subset of gay porn featuring guys like me – hairy dudes with dad-bods or, like, the ‘straight’ guy from the office who totally wants it up the ass.”</p><p>Eddie snorted, mumbling, “<em>Dumbass</em>,” into his hand.</p><p>“But when I was twenty and struggling to figure out if it was <em>okay </em>to go public with my lust for penises – and still more than a little low-key terrified some psychic homophobe would mind-read my X-rated fantasies about dick and fucking murder me on the spot - it was <em>very alienating </em>to think that not only had I royally fucked up the whole <em>being straight </em>thing everyone else managed so well, but that I wasn’t landing the right notes for homosexuality either.</p><p>“That’s not even to mention the bullshit discrimination and how being <em>out </em>would have killed my hopes for a career in comedy – especially since I’m not wrapped up in that semi-but-not-really-acceptable-gay-man package. And I get that I still have a lot of privilege – I’m a white dude for fucks sake – but that’s not how the industry works, you know? People want an easy read and what people are comfortable thinking <em>being gay </em>means really clashes with, like, everything else about me.</p><p>“And it’s not like my career was ever in place where the decision to come out wouldn’t essentially be choosing between <em>doing</em> what I love and openly <em>loving </em>who I want to love. That guy on <em>The Big Bang</em> had that role nailed down before he came out on SNL. NPH can literally do no wrong and plus he’s big in the musical theater thing and that’s – well, let’s just say they’re a little more liberal than the comedy scene, particularly twenty years ago when misogyny and gay bashing and racism were the height of humor. I spent my twenties performing in bars where, if anyone even <em>thought </em>I might steal a peek at their junk while they were taking a leak, I’d get my ass fucking handed to me and those guys were, in theory, <em>my friends</em>.</p><p>“So I did the math and figured keeping a Big Gay Secret was the better option in the long run.”</p><p>“<em>Richie</em>,” Eddie breathed into the brief silence that followed that heart-wrenching admission before Richie, the insufferable idiot, knee-jerked into saying, “Shit, that wasn’t very funny, was it? Some fucking comedian, huh?”</p><p>“You don’t seem to think it’s the better option anymore,” Cass quietly plowed over Richie’s attempt at laughing himself off and Eddie again internally cheered.</p><p>“No not anymore,” Richie admitted. “Probably never was. Hiding that part of myself hurt me in a lot of ways I’m only now beginning to understand.”</p><p>“And you figured that out because a house fell on you?” Gavin asked, a hint of humor in his voice.</p><p>“Yeah, pretty much,” Richie answered. There was a slight, tense pause and Eddie held his breath. “And, I mean… ugh, okay, I’m working on being more honest and <em>honestly</em> I am one <em>sappy fuck </em>so here goes:</p><p>“Thanks to a whole lot of repression, I only recently remembered what it was like to <em>love </em>someone. <em>Really</em> love someone – with my whole heart. And just cause some shitheads in Buttfuck Maine, or an office on fucking Wilshire, or the frat-boy comedy ticket-buying populace wouldn’t like the fact that I feel that for a man, doesn’t mean my love isn’t a good thing. The man I love <em>deserves </em>it,” Eddie’s heart fucking <em>throbbed</em>. “And feeling it doesn’t make me sick or wrong or dirty. It makes me human, I guess. And it makes me braver than I thought I could be.”</p><p>Eddie was fairly sure he was having an aneurism.</p><p>“So there <em>is </em>someone…” Cass said leadingly and Richie chuckled, raw and hurt. Eddie couldn’t stand the sound of it.</p><p>“Oh man, that’s my fucking exit,” Richie said, self-deprecating laughter obvious in his voice. Eddie wanted to shake the stupid bastard – he’d just admitted to being <em>in love</em> with someone, that stupid fuck – and now he wasn’t gonna expound on that? And sure, Eddie knew he was talking about Stan and he didn’t really want Richie to talk about that with a batch of fucking strangers on a public podcast when he wouldn’t even talk to <em>Eddie </em>about his heartbreaking childhood love but Eddie was curious enough he’d take whatever the fuck he could get.</p><p>Reading Richie’s obvious request for them to leave the topic alone, the conversation segued from that into a discussion about queer visibility in media and Richie (who Eddie knew for a fact was <em>very </em>aware of how uneducated he was on LGBTQ issues) kept his additions to one-liners and zingers that didn’t detract from the hosts’ commentaries.</p><p>So now – thanks to a fucking <em>podcast </em>– Eddie finally had a look inside Richie’s thinking all those years. To all the rage he’d pour into his altercations with his bullies and the aggressively constant allusions to having sex with women and how he never ever picked truth when playing Truth or Dare.</p><p>And again, Eddie pulled up the text chat with Richie and hovered his thumbs over the keyboard. Richie was in the middle of recording lines for his cartoon. He was busy. And Eddie would see him in a little over an hour.</p><p>But still…</p><p>After a few minutes of agonizing and eventually deciding he didn’t fucking care <em>what </em>they talked about as long as Richie sent him a message back, Eddie typed out, ‘<em>What are we making for dinner tonight?</em>’ and hit send.</p><p>He didn’t expect a quick response but the ‘<em>…</em>’ showed up almost immediately. Eddie wasn’t sure why that made his stomach flip over in a summersault but his guts had been clenched with anxiety since he started the podcast and it seemed like the logical next step.</p><p>
  <em>Richie: whatchu in the mood for Spaghetti?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Richie: what would tickle those taste buds?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Richie: white-guy-from-maine Mexican food?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Richie: i make a mean breakfast burrito</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eddie: Breakfast burritos aren’t Mexican food dumbass</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Richie: i know </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Richie: they’re white-guy-from-maine Mexican food</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Richie: totally different thing.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eddie: Aren’t you supposed to be working?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Richie: u okay with bacon or sausage </em>
</p><p>Eddie rolled his eyes at the obvious subject change.</p><p>
  <em>Richie: or r u seriously going to make me cook u a veggie burrito?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Richie: i don’t know what to look for in a bell pepper, man</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Richie: the produce department is my only weakness</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eddie: Bacon is fine, idiot.</em>
</p><p>Eddie rolled his eyes and clued back into the podcast when Richie’s voice crowed, “<em>Out and about</em>, <em>baby</em>!” as the stupid punctuation on some terrible joke.</p><p>“<em>Speaking</em> of ‘out and about’, who’s the mystery man in the TMZ pictures?” Bailey asked, voice conspiratorial and gossipy.</p><p>“That’s Eddie,” Richie answered, and it was stupid, really, how much Eddie liked the way Richie obviously perked up just speaking Eddie’s name. “He’s my friend.”</p><p>“<em>Best friend, asshole</em>,” Eddie muttered, annoyed but not entirely sure why.</p><p>“Another of your childhood friends?” Cass asked.</p><p>“Yeah, we go way back. And now we’re both having coordinated mid-life crisises… <em>crises?</em> … Crises. Yet again proving everything is better with friends.”</p><p>“Do you view coming out at forty as a mid-life crisis?”</p><p>And it wasn’t like Eddie expected Richie to keep talking about him (okay maybe he did <em>a little</em>) but Bailey had said, ‘<em>Oh so this is the famous Eddie</em>,’ like he’d been the topic of more than a single sentence. Eddie refused to acknowledge that disappointment.</p><p>“Ha!” Richie’s stupid honking laugh jerked Eddie back into the moment. “Um, maybe? Probably a lot of other people see it that way.”</p><p>“What about you?”</p><p>“I think of it as…” Richie hummed thoughtfully. “I guess it’s kinda like when I was a kid and they finally figured out I needed glasses. I had no idea the world wasn’t supposed to be blurry, you know? I was walking around bumping into shit and thinking trees were just, like, green blobs or whatever and that everyone only ever saw faces as fleshy smears. And I was okay with that cause I didn’t know any better. But then I got glasses and it’s like ‘<em>oh the world is full of detail</em>’.</p><p>“That house falling on me – that moment when I realized all my friends might <em>die </em>and that would be it, I’d never have let these people I love so much <em>know </em>me - that was like seeing the world in crisp detail. And once I realized that I didn’t want to lie to them anymore, there was no going back. And, like, maybe that realization didn’t come to me until I was fucking <em>forty </em>cause I’m not the most emotionally intelligent person on the planet but what can you do?”</p><p>Richie laughed then, loud and obnoxious and so <em>him </em>Eddie huffed a snort out his nose. “Ugh, god, did I seriously just use a metaphor? Maybe this <em>is</em> a mid-life crisis…”</p><p>After listening to the podcast wrap up, Eddie cleaned. Maybe a little obsessively but <em>who the fuck cared</em>? Richie’s apartment wasn’t nearly as dirty as he would have thought it would be (Richie <em>totally </em>hired a service - he kept pretending he was the one who kept it so clean but Eddie <em>knew </em>it couldn’t be him) but they’d been cooking dinners all week so there were dishes to wash and a few spills to wipe up on the counter.</p><p>Cleaning had always been an acceptable way to vent his emotions, both with his mother and with Myra. Neither of them let him help with cooking; there were too many sharp things that could cut him or hot things that could burn him or foods that could poison him (so they said - now, Eddie was starting to see that it was a way to keep him dependent). That was hugely why his food prep skills at the age of <em>forty </em>were limited to measuring things (slowly and obsessively), washing things (also slowly and obsessively), or, on rare occasions, stirring things (but only if the stakes were <em>very </em>low).</p><p>That Richie knew how to cook was both annoying and completely unsurprising. Eddie remembered the first time he went over to Richie’s house after school – they were probably ten or eleven and he’d told his mother he was going to the library to work on a project with Bill knowing it was one of the few places she wouldn’t call to ask after him because the librarian who would answer the phone was black and his mother was racist on top of being awful in every other fucking way.</p><p>It was the first time Eddie lied to his mother – Richie had been asking him over for <em>years </em>but Eddie always said no because there was no child in town his mother hated more than Richie. Eddie thought he’d feel guilty about the lie and he did, a <em>little</em> bit, until Eddie asked if he could come over and Richie’s face lit up like a fucking Christmas tree, stupid gangly arms wrapping around Eddie to heave him off the ground and swing him in a circle.</p><p>After that, what little guilt Eddie harbored vanished.</p><p>It was a culture shock entering the Tozier household for the first time, Richie’s home life so different from his own. There were no parents there; no mother hovering over quiet playtime and forbidding them from going out in the yard like there was at Eddie’s. No baby brother trailing around in their wake like there was at Bill’s. Only him and Richie alone in a strange house without supervision.</p><p>First thing Richie did when he walked in the door was fling off his backpack and shoes, making a beeline for the kitchen where Eddie, fucking <em>mesmerized</em>, watched Richie cook and serve them both Kraft macaroni and cheese.</p><p>Richie. <em>Richie Tozier</em> - the same kid who stuck a ruler in the air conditioning vent and broke the unit in the hottest month of the school year, the same kid who tackled <em>Bowers </em>when the much bigger boy shoved Eddie off the slide even though he got clobbered for it, the same kid who Eddie had to scoot close to during math lessons so he could whisper follow up help into his ear – that idiot kid could boil water and drain a pot without burning himself, stirring in the right ingredients to make an actual meal.</p><p>Richie seemed very Adult in that moment, even rocking up on his toes to fish out bowls from a higher cabinet. He was self-sufficient and sure-handed when he shoved a fork into the middle of a pile of bright orange pasta and slid it across the table to Eddie who was nearly speechless. Everything in his head about Richie had to reconfigure so that moment could make sense.</p><p>Eddie had been sure Richie was genuinely an idiot up to that point. A very <em>fun </em>idiot, one who made him laugh even though Eddie didn’t always want to encourage him and one who Eddie liked <em>a lot</em> (maybe even more than Bill – or in a different way at least; if Eddie sometimes imagined Bill was his older brother, he saw Richie as his over-excitable dog).</p><p>But <em>that idiot</em> just did a series of actions Eddie had never seen someone his age do, the resultant creation one the fucking <em>tastiest </em>things Eddie had ever eaten (his mother never let him eat processed foods from boxes because they were too salty and full of chemicals and they weren’t good for fragile little boys like him). And when Eddie asked him about it, trying his fucking best to disguise his shock, the bastard shrugged it off like it was nothing.</p><p>“It’s not hard,” Richie said around a mouthful of pasta. He’d had braces at the time (only for a year or two, long enough to mostly straighten his crooked teeth) so metal glinted between pieces of mashed up noodles. “You just do what the box says.”</p><p>But his skills in the kitchen didn’t end with macaroni.</p><p>When Eddie upgraded to sneaking out occasionally for sleepovers, Richie would make him pancakes in the morning, cooked from scratch, dotted with chocolate chips if Richie’s parents had thought to buy them. When they didn’t have enough cash to pool together for a pizza, he’d whip them up sandwiches with what he could find in the fridge. He even taught Eddie how to cook ramen before he left for college so he wouldn’t starve (though that culinary foray wound up being short lived once he moved into his aunt’s house with his mom – ‘<em>Just think of the the </em>sodium<em>, Eddie-bear</em>’).</p><p>It wasn’t until he was scrubbing a speck of pasta sauce off the stove that Eddie thought of the last meal he ate with Richie before he left for NYU.</p><p>Eddie’s last day in Derry, Richie picked him up in the banged-to-hell station wagon they both loved too much and drove Eddie out to Mike’s farm for the afternoon. They hid out in the barn while the sun was high and laid out in the field when evening brought with it a cool breeze, laughing and reminiscing and trying to write their futures on the clouds drifting overhead.</p><p>When the sun went down, Richie loaded Eddie back into his car and took them both back to his house. Eddie had been expecting to be dragged out to the Barrens for one last childish romp in the woods or the quarry for one last swim or maybe even the Aladdin to get his ass kicked one last time at Street Fighter but Richie’s house was fitting. His basement was Eddie’s favorite place on earth.</p><p>Instead of clomping down the stairs together and collapsing onto the couch in front of the TV like they did most nights, Richie made Eddie wait at the door for three minutes while Eddie bitched under his breath and slapped away mosquitos trying to eat him alive.</p><p>When Richie opened the door again and grandly gestured him inside, Eddie noticed he’d brushed the hay out of his hair and changed into a shirt that didn’t smell like popcorn from his day job at the theater. A small card table was set up in the middle of the room, a cloth laid over it, fucking <em>candles </em>lighting the scene.</p><p>“Welcome to Chez Tozier,” Richie simpered in a British butler Voice which had gotten a lot better since the first time he’d tried it at age fourteen, bending at the waist to bow Eddie into the room.</p><p>He had cooked spaghetti that morning, planning from who-knew-when, reheating it and serving it on his parents’ fancy wedding china. He’d also stolen a bottle of wine from his mom’s stash and they drank it out of actual wine glasses instead of sipping from the lip of the bottle like usual.</p><p>It was ridiculous and probably embarrassing but also so weirdly <em>sweet</em> (there was that fucking word again). Richie bounced around, half-playing ostentatious maître’d when he jumped to his feet to serve Eddie dinner and pour him wine and dramatically flap out a paper towel to lay in Eddie’s lap. Alternatively he kept up the jabber, fully turned up to the loudest version of himself while he ate across the small table from Eddie, laughing harder than he normally would and smiling with every part of his face but his eyes, their knees knocking together under the tablecloth.</p><p>Eddie hadn’t spent the night even though he wanted to. He was too paranoid about his mother somehow finding out about his bus ticket tucked safely into his wallet in his pants pocket. Plus he had to wait until she was conked out on her sleeping pills before he could pack, the empty luggage cases he’d found in the attic hopefully still unnoticed where he’d shoved them under his bed. He already had a checklist of things he’d need but he had to fit a new life’s worth of stuff into two ancient suitcases and he was nervous. Nervous and excited. Nervous and excited and just a little bit melancholy.</p><p>Richie walked him all the way to his door when he dropped him off even though Eddie had laughed and shoved his shoulder and reminded him he was the one driving him to the bus station the next morning. Standing on his doorstep, the warm light from the window cast Richie’s almost adult-face into blue and orange planes. He’d let his hair grow out too long but it didn’t look bad – if anything it made him almost <em>pretty</em> – an observation Eddie hadn’t had the right words for at the time but his heart had ached over it all the same.</p><p>“I’m gonna miss you, Eds,” Richie said, and even though it was dark, Eddie caught the glint of tears in his eyes so he pulled him into a hug and clung on for dear life.</p><p>Eddie knew Richie and Mike expected whatever happened to the other Losers to happen to Eddie too. He remembered the conversation they’d had after Ben left and the way Richie had sank into himself when Stan followed. And Eddie knew Richie thought this was <em>goodbye</em> in the permanent way. But the summer of ‘89 had faded a bit at the edges as Eddie grew older and he was young and had his whole fucking life ahead of him and the thought of <em>forgetting Richie </em>seemed as impossible as waking up with a missing limb and not noticing the change.</p><p>Eddie’s white knuckled hand stilled its frantic scrubbing. He’d been so stupid back then. Young and reckless with the impenetrable shield of youth convincing him he was indestructible.</p><p>But <em>Richie</em> had been right.</p><p>Eddie wasn’t even sure when it happened. Whether it was on the bus to New York or when he dragged his two suitcases into his tiny dorm and shook hands with his new roommate or if it was when he found a note in his pants pocket that read ‘<em>REMEMBER ME</em>’ in vaguely familiar handwriting followed by a phone number, but he’d dropped it on his roommates desk thinking he’d picked up something of his by mistake.</p><p>The clattering of keys at the door jerked Eddie out of his thoughts and he tossed the sponge in the sink, washing his hands off and trying to remember how to be normal. Instead of accomplishing that, for some fucking reason, the first thing Eddie said to Richie when he opened the door was, “I’m your <em>best </em>friend, right?”</p><p>Richie, still in the doorway, hand on the knob, froze in confusion. “Uh, good to see you too, Eds. <em>What the fuck</em>…?”</p><p>“I listened to the podcast and it was great and I’m really proud of you asshole but <em>I’m your </em>best<em> friend</em>, right?”</p><p>Richie started laughing, loud and slightly manic, toeing off his shoes next to the door, broad back turned towards Eddie.</p><p>“What the fuck happened to Bill?” Richie asked, throwing himself onto the carpet where his couch used to be. “You know what I miss? The couch.”</p><p>“Shut the fuck up, that thing had enough generic material to make a deposit at a sperm bank.” Richie cackled and Eddie fought hard to keep down his self-satisfied smile. “And what do you mean what happened to Bill?”</p><p>“I mean isn’t <em>Bill</em> your best friend? Last I checked you were in love with the guy.” And Eddie was kind of pissed Richie had thrown himself on the floor because now Eddie felt weird, standing over him with his arms crossed, Richie’s face tilting up to meet Eddie’s eyes. Weird but not bad, maybe. It was kind of nice being the tall one for once. “Weren’t you just calling him a dreamboat?”</p><p>“I called him <em>dreamy </em>and that was <em>once </em>and don’t fucking act like Bill wasn’t – we all fucking thought it.” Eddie paused then, trying to work out his thoughts. He still wasn’t used to putting them into words. “Bill <em>was </em>my best friend. Then he started liking girls and dating and I don’t know… he spent more time with his girlfriends than he did with me.”</p><p>Eddie still remembered that small hurt in a way dulled with time. Bill’s phone number used to be the first he’d dial any day his mom gave him tentative permission to play with his friends. But when Bill got handsome sometime around sixth grade, he started talking to girls in class and going out with them to get ice cream on the weekends and it became less of a guarantee Bill would be around, his priorities almost always one girl or another, eventually Bev, and then after she moved away a series of girls who never measured up to her.</p><p>With the new filter of his possible-almost-crush, Eddie wondered if that jealousy was a little more personal than he’d originally thought. Then again, Eddie never really liked when his friends got along with other people, some animal part of his brain standing up and screaming ‘<em>MINE</em>’ at the top of its lungs.</p><p>Richie on the other hand was <em>always </em>around, always willing to meet up at the Kissing Bridge and delve into the Barrens or read the newest issue of <em>Hellboy</em> together. Fuck, Richie would blow off any and all other plans the <em>second </em>Eddie asked if he wanted to hang out which was fucking flattering considering more than once Bill left Eddie high and dry at Keene’s when his crush of the week walked by.</p><p>“Well, at least you don’t have to worry about that with ‘ol Trashmouth, eh?” Richie smirked, winking and leaning back on his hands, something shifty in his magnified eyes. “I’m not exactly in the market for a girlfriend.”</p><p>“<em>Good</em>,” Eddie bit out without thinking about it, ignoring the way Richie’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead. “Now why the fuck won’t my <em>best friend</em> tell a gaggle of Gen-Z podcasters about me?”</p><p>“<em>I did</em>! Didn’t I? Did they cut it? They asked about you and I answered!” Bizarely, Richie’s cheeks darkened, two little spots of red. Eddie towering over him for once had a birds-eye view of the phenomena which Richie tried to cover by lifting a hand to fiddle with his glasses. “I didn’t think I should say your whole name cause of the whole divorce thing. I figured you wanted to try to keep things, you know, anonymous or whatever. Is that what this is? Was I supposed to say, ‘<em>yes, that’s my insane friend, Edward Spaghedward Kaspbrak</em>’?”</p><p>Myra had already seen the tabloid article about the two of them getting ice cream. She sent Eddie a long email, the brunt of which was much more concerned with the fact that the childhood friend he had left to take care of was a celebrity and he’d never told her he knew someone famous (that and the fact that he was consuming empty calories in public with likely unwashed hands). She hardly mentioned the insinuation that he and Richie might be in a relationship that was more than platonic. Eddie suspected that stemmed from her disbelief that <em>anyone </em>could be interested in him, let alone a celebrity. Myra had made it pretty clear he wasn’t the most <em>fantastic </em>catch and at least some of her points were valid.</p><p>Whatever the case was, the cat was out of the bag. People at his new office had been asking him about Richie in a way that was probably meant to be friendly and since Eddie couldn’t talk about Richie without regressing, his coworkers thought he was <em>funny </em>now instead of intimidating. And they were already asking him if he was bringing Richie to the holiday party a solid two months in the future. Eddie still wasn’t sure how he felt about any of that.</p><p>“No dude,” Eddie snapped, “you’re supposed to say ‘<em>oh that guy, that’s my </em>best <em>friend</em>’.” That’s what Eddie had been telling his coworkers, after all. Richie, however, made some kind of face that Eddie couldn’t quite make sense of before he tilted his head and smoothed his features. “That’s what I am, right?” Eddie demanded, furious and hurt. “I’m your <em>best friend</em>, right?!”</p><p>“Eddie, you are my absolute favorite person on earth - in all of human existence - <em>bar none</em>.”</p><p>“Then say it, asshole. Say I’m your best friend.”</p><p>Richie grimaced and Eddie’s jaw dropped.</p><p>“If <em>I’m</em> not your best friend, who the fuck is?!”</p><p>Richie’s adam apple bobbed when he swallowed. “…<em>Stan</em>…?” Richie said, very quietly, and Eddie immediately felt like shit for about sixty different reasons.</p><p>Stan. Of course it would be Stan. It was hard to be mad at Stan for that, not when the hurt of missing him was still a vice around Eddie’s heart. But it was also extremely unfair that Stan had so many pieces of Richie and had inadvertently thrown them all away – not just his friendship – his <em>best </em>friendship - but Richie’s stupid, sentimental, sappy as fuck <em>heart</em>.</p><p>The rational, calculative part of Eddie reminded him that Stan wasn’t in the picture anymore and while Richie would probably hold onto him for a <em>long </em>time, eventually there had to be an opening, right? For Richie’s best friend? They were fucking <em>living </em>together after all. Richie hadn’t seen Stan since he was seventeen. At <em>some </em>point Eddie would seamlessly slot into that place, he was sure of it.</p><p>Then again, maybe Richie was clinging to Stan’s memory the only way he could – calling Stan his best friend even though he was gone. Eddie could (begrudgingly) understand that.</p><p>Not sure exactly what the right procedure was when any mention of Stan usually broke Richie down into tears, Eddie lowered himself to his knees at Richie’s side, ignoring the bastard’s cartoon-wide eyes and leaning forward to pull Richie into a hug, patting his back.</p><p>See. Eddie could be good at this stuff. He was learning. And hugs were something Stan wouldn’t do – or at least he wouldn’t when they last knew him as a teenager. So that had to count for something.</p><p>“Oh – okay,” Richie said, the heat of his words sinking through Eddie’s shirt and into his shoulder. After a half-second’s pause, Richie hugged him back firmly, long strong arms circling Eddie in a way that (always) felt ridiculously nice.</p><p>“I’m still your fucking roommate, right?” Eddie grumbled, trying to find a better word for their relationship, something more foundational than <em>friend</em>. Something that meant Eddie was different to Richie and Richie was different to Eddie. Because they were. Whatever bullshit Richie was on about, they were special to each other, Eddie fucking <em>knew </em>it.</p><p>“Yeah,” Richie said, laughing a little into Eddie’s chest. The vibration of it, the way Richie’s shoulders bounced under his hands, that was nice. “You’re my bat-shit crazy roommate. My Eddie Spaghetti.” ‘<em>Roommate</em>’ still didn’t feel like enough but the second thing wasn’t bad (minus the fucking <em>Spaghetti</em> but Richie’s nicknames were a mark of ownership all on their own). “Is that what you want me to say next time I get asked? That you’re my roommate? You know there’s a connotation there that people will get hung up on…”</p><p>“Friend is fine, fucknut,” Eddie groused, cupping his hand over the curve of Richie’s neck to smoosh Richie’s face into the hollow of his shoulder, appreciating the smooth texture of Richie’s hair. Richie was close enough his breath tickled Eddie’s skin and it was nice. Soothing. The rasp of Richie’s 5’o’clock shadow a strange but electric sensation across the tender flesh of his throat. “Roommate is, too. And you can say my name, I don’t mind. Maybe if people think we’re hooking up it’ll help Myra get the fucking picture.”</p><p>Richie spluttered into his shoulder at that, squeezing him tight around the middle. Eddie and Richie were a pair – a packaged set – and the more people who knew that, the better.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>😘</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter Twelve</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: mentions of substance abuse, internal and external homophobia, mentions of Stan's suicide, alcohol and weed consumption</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Bill’s film shoot finally wrapped and he flew back to LA, Richie and Eddie’s first visit went a little something like this:</p><p> </p><p class="scriptpg">INT. BILL’S SUPRISINGLY UNDERSTATED BEACHFRONT HOUSE – AFTERNOON</p><p> </p><p class="scriptpg">RICHIE (still shlubby but <em>trying</em>) crushes BILL (compact, you’d never guess his nickname used to be Big Bill) into a hug, breathing in the airport smell of his hair. The windows of his Nice Malibu House are open to the sea air.</p><p> </p><p class="scriptpg">RICHIE</p><p class="scriptpg">How the <em>fuck</em> could you write</p><p class="scriptpg">so many books about child-murder</p><p class="scriptpg"> when you’re listening to the soothing</p><p class="scriptpg"> wash of the ocean and watching the</p><p class="scriptpg">sun go down over the horizon?</p><p> </p><p class="scriptpg">BILL</p><p class="scriptpg">Wuh-what, you want me to live in</p><p class="scriptpg"> a fucking dungeon?</p><p> </p><p class="scriptpg">RICHIE</p><p class="scriptpg"><em>No</em>. But would a few cobwebs and</p><p class="scriptpg">bloodstains kill you?</p><p> </p><p class="scriptpg">EDDIE (fucking <em>adorable</em>, as always) pushes Richie out of the way to take his turn hugging Bill. Bill who is apparently <em>not </em>Eddie’s best friend. Because Richie is. What the fuck.</p><p class="scriptpg">Just then, BILL’S WIFE (who, real talk, bears more than a passing resemblance to Beverly - <em>yikes</em>) sidles down the stairs and Richie blanches.</p><p> </p><p class="scriptpg">AUDRA PHILIPS</p><p class="scriptpg">No can do. The red would really</p><p class="scriptpg">clash with the décor.</p><p> </p><p class="scriptpg">She stops at the foot of the stairs, eyes landing on Richie, and clear recognition passes over her face.</p><p> </p><p class="scriptpg">RICHIE</p><p class="scriptpg">Well<em> fuck</em>.</p><p> </p><p>So here’s the thing: in the late nineties/early oughts, Richie had very briefly run in the same circles as Audra Philips - back when Richie’s life was quite different from the one he was trying to shape now. At the time, he was young and stupid (stupid-<em>er</em>) and dating a woman. A woman who was Audra’s friend.</p><p>And, for reasons that <em>at the time</em> made a lot of sense (see earlier:<em> stupid</em>), Richie never <em>actually </em>broke up with that woman. Because Richie was a fucking garbage person.</p><p>“Bill, your wife is <em>Audra Philips</em>,” Eddie deadpanned, wiping his hands off on his slacks before accepting the hand she had stretched out towards him. But (and here was the real fucking kicker) she was squinting at Richie the whole time in something that wasn’t <em>entirely </em>distaste but wasn’t exactly friendly, either.</p><p>“Bill, your childhood friend is <em>Richie Tozier</em>,” Audra mimicked Eddie’s tone, propping a fist on her hip and cocking her head, pointedly not offering Richie her hand. Once she made that aversion clear, Richie shoved his hands <em>deep </em>into his pockets, his shoulder twinging painfully as he tensed up. “It’s been a while,” she said to Richie and in any other circumstance, the way Eddie and Bill whipped their heads to him would have been fucking hysterical but as it was, he’d rather set himself on fire than be the subject of their scrutiny.</p><p>“You k-k-know Richie?” Bill asked, sounding pleased.</p><p>“<em>Heeeeeyyyyy </em>Audra,” Richie did his best to sing-song, desperate to sound disaffected and <em>super </em>hoping Audra would play it cool and not bring up anything that happened circa 1999. “How’ve you been?”</p><p>She shot Bill a little look and shrugged. “<em>I’m </em>fine.” Her eyes whipped back to him, <em>evaluating</em>, and her eyebrow arched dangerously. <em>Oh boy</em>. “Sandy’s fine, too. Remember her? Sandy Herrera?”</p><p>“Who’s Sandy Herrara?” Eddie demanded and Richie very seriously considered vaulting the balcony and walking straight into the sea.</p><p>When he remembered Eddie would probably do something annoying like give him CPR and save his life, he reluctantly mumbled, “My – uh - my ex-girlfriend…” to Bill’s very nice flooring. “Hey Eddie, get a look at this dark wood…”</p><p>“<em>You</em> had a <em>girl</em>friend?” both Bill and Eddie said, plowing over Richie’s attempt to change the topic, though Bill emphasized the ‘<em>you</em>’ part and Eddie emphasized the ‘<em>girl</em>’ part. Thanks a lot guys.</p><p>“<em>Is </em>she your ex?” Audra hummed while Richie grimaced. “Last I checked she was still a little unclear about where you two stand.” And the worst thing was Audra didn’t sound <em>super </em>pissed about it or anything. In fact, she almost sounded like she was trying to make a joke. It was just that Richie hadn’t been prepared to come face-to-face with his middle-life (the amnesiac one between the times he clocked in fighting monsters in Derry) when he stepped into Bill’s fucking beautiful beach house. He’d thought he was very safely in the I’m-not-that-person-anymore-let’s-all-just-pretend-I-can-change zone.</p><p>But here he was, staring into the green eyes of reality (and seriously, this woman could be Bev’s fucking sister, and maybe when he wasn’t fucking <em>panicking </em>he’d try to shot A Look at Eddie so they could discuss that later but right now was not the time).</p><p>“So maybe you haven’t heard but it turns out <em>I’m gay</em>,” Richie over-annunciated and wow, it was <em>a little </em>easier to say but it still felt like he was spitting out rusty nails. Would he ever hit a point he wouldn’t stumble over it? Richie really fucking hoped so.</p><p>“Oh I know,” Audra hummed. “I don’t live under a rock. But it’s not like that gives you a free pass on being an <em>asshole</em>.”</p><p>“<em>Watch it,</em>” Eddie snapped, going stiff at Richie’s side, which was kind of a riot because Eddie had called him at least three worse things on the drive over and Richie had loved every single insult.</p><p>Audra raised a single perfect eyebrow.</p><p>“No, I <em>definitely </em>deserve that,” Richie said, unstuffing his hand from his pocket to sling his arm over Eddie. The texture of Eddie’s barely contained rage was strangely soothing. “Though I guess I was banking on their being some kind of statute of limitations on being a dick.”</p><p>“No dice,” Audra shrugged, but she patted him on the shoulder in a friendly-ish gesture and offered him a smile that <em>probably </em>meant she wasn’t planning on holding it against him forever. “Not on matters of a broken heart.”</p><p>And oh, look at that, <em>Richie’s</em> heart had just been punched out of his chest. See this – this is why he spent so much of the 2000’s drinking until he couldn’t feel anything. He was relatively okay with being an asshole so long as he didn’t have to think about it too much. “So – uh – how is she?”</p><p>“Sandy? She’s good,” Audra answered pointedly. “Writing for the Simpsons and married to a really nice woman.”</p><p>If Richie felt any shock at the revelation that Sandy had married a woman, it was distant in comparison to his overwhelming self-hatred. “Good for her,” Richie said, truly meaning it even if he was pretty sure his voice was doing something weird. “You know, when Bill said he was married to an actress, I figured he meant someone who’d played a corpse on CSI a decade ago. But of course <em>Bill </em>would land an honest to god <em>starlet</em>.”</p><p>“Nuh-no way, l-let’s go back to Richie’s thing,” Bill said, grinning in that way he used to when Richie got chewed out for talking too much in class – that sly little ‘<em>I’m gonna tell the Losers about this later so we can all make fun of you for saying ‘dick-biscuit’ to a teacher</em>’ smirk. Fucking Bill. “Come on, Richie, t-tell us about your sordid history of affairs.”</p><p>“It wasn’t <em>sordid</em>,” Richie grumbled but Bill was already laughing.</p><p>“You s-scared a woman off men forever so…”</p><p>“That’s not how it works, Bill,” Eddie bit out, still bristly. Richie wished he was in a better headspace to appreciate Eddie defending him from Bill since, <em>again</em>, Bill apparently wasn’t his favorite anymore which just like… what?... but there was too much going on to fully enjoy the moment.</p><p>Much less clipped, Eddie turned to Richie and asked, “What happened with her, Rich?” and Richie hated that <em>he </em>was the one asking because it was getting harder and harder to refuse Eddie anything.</p><p>“<em>Guys</em>,” Richie whined, letting Bill guide the group into a small kitchen where he passed out cold bottles of beer from a grocery bag. When Bill had called and invited them over, he had obviously been in the airport, announcements about luggage carousels and loading zones audible behind his excited voice. Richie had been relieved at the evidence that it wasn’t just him who was so desperate to reconnect with the Losers in a situation that wasn’t <em>dire</em>. Eddie and Richie had hoped in the car immediately, nearly beating Bill and Audra home.</p><p>Richie popped the cap off his bottle against the counter and traded it for the unopened beer in Eddie’s hands, repeating the process and taking a long, bracing sip. Audra was clearly content to join them and yeah, sure, she was Bill’s wife and it wasn’t like he hated her or anything, but opening up in front of an <em>Oscar nominated actress </em>about his gay-crisis wasn’t exactly on his to-do list. “There’s <em>barely</em> a story there.”</p><p>And there really wasn’t. Sandy was smart and funny and a little mean – exactly Richie type. When he met her, Richie was just starting to land consistent enough sets to draw Steve’s attention but he still hung around UCB to keep himself fresh with improv. She somehow wound up in all the same groups as Richie and everyone agreed; when they stood up in front of people and did a sketch, they had <em>chemistry</em>. Which was true. And perfect fucking timing for Richie’s I’m-definitely-not-gay masquerade.</p><p>Because the last person Richie had too much <em>chemistry </em>with was a grumpy older guy with dark hair, thick eyebrows and the wiry build of Norman Bates which bizarrely did <em>a lot </em>for Richie. It was about the closest to being<em> in love </em>as Richie probably could be in a world where he didn’t remember Eddie and he might not have had the capacity to be subtle about that at the tender age of twenty-four.</p><p>It helped that he was a class instructor so Richie’s devotion could be considered a form of brown-nosing but Richie genuinely <em>did </em>want to get more acquainted with the man’s ass and something about his behavior must have given that away.</p><p>Eventually people started to talk. They’d slip little jokes about it into their skits. <em>Referential humor</em>. Fucking grand. Gay-bashing was super in at the time so it was always a fucking <em>riot</em> when someone, shooting Richie a <em>I’m-so-fucking-clever</em> look, would snip out a little one-liner about how much Richie wanted to get on his knees and take it up the ass.</p><p>But Richie was a professional (or desperately wanted to be, at least) so even if his heart was beating out of his goddamn chest and his fingernails were cutting half-circles into his palm, he’d laugh the hardest of them all. He <em>had </em>to. Otherwise they’d know. Hell, once or twice he made that kind of joke himself because he was <em>so comfortable </em>with his straightness it didn’t hurt his dignity to lisp and flop his wrist around in front of a room full of people actively waiting for him to slip out of heteronormativity so they could <em>Other </em>the fuck out of him.</p><p>Sandy coming along was a god-send. She was so <em>easy </em>to spend time with, always joking, always laughing, always smiling. She wanted to be a writer so she helped him workshop some of his material and her advice was sound. Best of all, people stopped making gay jokes about Richie and started asking if he and Sandy were dating. With a shrug, Richie turned to her and asked if she’d be interested and okay, yeah, in retrospect the way she lit up probably meant she wasn’t as <em>whatever </em>about it as Richie was but in so many ways, he’d been wearing blinders his entire fucking life.</p><p>He thought it wasn’t that serious. They ran through skits together at UCB. They got drinks after improv. They had sex. If Richie’s mind wandered to Edward Norton while he hovered over her, sweaty and pumping and determined, Sandy didn’t need to know that. Because he could make jokes about fingering a woman the next day on stage with some practical knowledge of a vagina which was helpful both to his comedy and to his disguise as a Perfectly Normal Straight Dude Yessiree.</p><p>Then Steve pushed Richie to tour, the two of them driving around the state and then they expanded to the West Coast and eventually the nation, Richie landing bigger and bigger gigs, Steve and him spending their days at shitty motels and nights at comedy clubs of increasing quality.</p><p>Unfortunately, Richie was easily distracted and Sandy – even though she was a <em>great</em> fucking girl – didn’t hold enough real estate in his head to stick around when she wasn’t actively standing in front of him. He talked to her on the phone, but it maybe wasn’t as often as it should have been if he was trying to make things work. They dated for ten months, most of that was long-distance, and it was hard for Richie to imagine Sandy had any <em>real</em> interest in him because she barely fucking saw him.</p><p>Back then, the word ‘<em>ghosting</em>’ wasn’t around to describe the specific behavior Richie used to nudge her out of his life without ever actually <em>breaking up with her</em>. It was just called Being an Asshole. Which he definitely was.</p><p>He let her calls go unanswered and eventually she stopped trying to contact him and he breathed out a massive sigh of relief. Honestly, if he hadn’t gone on tour, he’d probably have done something stupid like ask her to marry him. Because that’s what people did, right? Get married. Be straight. Live the life. Fucking gross.</p><p>Bill led them to the wide deck overlooking the ocean and the four of them sat down at a patio table, the late afternoon sunlight blinding where it reflected off the water.</p><p>“So I had a girlfriend – is that such a big deal?” Richie groused. The silence after that question was resounding though Bill looked like he was on the edge of laughing, Eddie still stuck in that constipated grimace of concern, Audra surprisingly neutral. “She was a nice girl, okay? I probably shouldn’t have used her for camouflage or as a beard or whatever the fuck I was doing but I was young and hoped the power of pussy would convert me into straightness. It <em>didn’t</em>, BT dubs. Turns out I’m still gay even if I’m balls deep in snatch.”</p><p>“You could have officially broken it off with her at least,” Audra shrugged, sipping from her own beer. “She was hung up on you for a while.”</p><p>“<em>Why</em>?!” Richie instinctually cried, almost laughing in incredulity. Eddie elbowed him hard in the gut for that and Bill dissolved into chuckles.</p><p>“Oh my guh-god,” Bill sighed, rubbing his face (still smiling, the fucking jerk).</p><p>“Billy-Boy, you’re married to a fucking ingénue,” Richie emphasized, gesturing grandly to Audra who smiled a coy, Hollywood smile. “Isn’t that significantly more interesting that the girl I half-dated fifteen fucking years ago?”</p><p>“Yeah, Bill, what the fuck!” Eddie said, thankfully turning those burning brown doe-eyes to Bill.</p><p>“I <em>tuh-told </em>you she was an actor!”</p><p>“<em>Audra Philips </em>deserves a fucking name drop, dude.”</p><p>“D-don’t change the subject!” Bill cried, half-laughing, and Richie hated himself but he was half-laughing too.</p><p>“Or what, Bill? Are you gonna sock me in the face again?”</p><p>Bill, as Richie knew he would, flushed red, his hand jumping up to rake at his hair, the same way he always reacted anytime Richie reminded him about the time he’d cracked Richie across the nose with his fist. Audra’s perfect eyebrows climbed her forehead but she hid a grin behind the lip of her beer bottle, intrigued but not surprised.</p><p>What Richie <em>didn’t</em> expect was Eddie’s indignant, “<em>What</em>?”</p><p>“I didn’t mean it, Richie,” Bill mumbled, eyes so fucking sincere, his fingers picking at the label on his beer. And if Richie were a better person, he might feel a little bad about never letting The Punch go. It was just <em>hard </em>to let that sort of universe up-ending event slip into distant, forgiven memory.</p><p>“Didn’t mean it? <em>You punched me in the face</em>, dude! The face I wear <em>glasses</em> on!”</p><p>And alright, it seemed like Richie was still a little pissed about that. But why shouldn’t he be? <em>Bill</em> wasn’t supposed to hit Richie. Bowers and Belch and Patrick and Victor, sure - they made a fucking art of it, Belch in particular perfecting the one hit Glasses-Cruncher around the time Richie turned eleven. It drove his mom fucking crazy. ‘<em>Can’t you </em>try <em>not to get hit</em>?’ she somewhat-jokingly asked Richie the third time they had to get new frames in sixth grade. As if Richie <em>wanted </em>to get bullied. As if he didn’t fucking hate it. As if he wasn’t so used to nosebleeds and split lips and black eyes you’d think he was training for MMA.</p><p>When Bill popped one across Richie’s kisser, that was the exact moment Bill fell off the pedestal in Richie’s mind, their relationship never quite returning to what it used to be. He’d cried into his pillow for hours that night, betrayed and terrified and worried sick over Eddie. Richie let it go, mostly, eventually, because he’d earned it by being an asshole and Bill wasn’t all bad – he was always the first to laugh at Richie’s jokes and that was Important – but Richie had always been a little afraid of Bill for being so Mature and Good and later for walking around with the exposed nerve that was Georgie, a neon sign blasting potentials for Richie to say the wrong thing and fuck up since that was what he was best at.</p><p>“<em>When the fuck did Bill punch you in the face</em>?!” Eddie semi-shrieked, and Richie cut a glance over at him, realizing that this somehow must have never come up in his company. Not that Richie brought it up often. The shame of driving angelic <em>Bill</em> fucking <em>Denborough</em> to the point that he’d hit Richie in the face was something that lingered in the back of Richie’s subconscious until the day he forgot everything about Derry.</p><p>“After Neibolt. The f-first time,” Bill supplied sheepishly, Eddie’s slack face turning between Bill and Richie demandingly.</p><p>“What? I don’t remember that!”</p><p>“It was right after your mom dragged you to the hospital,” Richie shrugged.</p><p>“Neibolt?” Audra echoed. “Wait, isn’t that the house that collapsed on one of your friends? The whole reason you nearly got kicked off <em>your own </em>movie, Bill?”</p><p>“<em>Thank </em>you Audra, yes, it was <em>exactly </em>that house,” Richie said, judging from Bill’s tight-lipped look of guilt, he hadn’t gone into depth about what used to live <em>underneath</em> that house and Richie’s brain stalled a bit over that new information. “And for the record, that friend was <em>me</em>. Wanna see the scar?” Richie started pulling at his shirt, desperate to break the new brittle tension settling over the married couple on the other side of the table.</p><p>It didn’t work. “I’ll pass, thanks,” she said, her whole attention locked on Bill. “What happened in there the <em>first</em> time?” Bill, eyes fucking glued to the table, shrugged.</p><p>Richie <em>saw </em>the moment Audra shifted from curious to hurt so he filled in, “Eddie fell through the second floor and broke his arm kind of spectacularly.” To make matters worse, he mimed breaking something between his two hands and made a harsh ‘<em>crrrck</em>’ noise that made everyone but himself cringe. “Eds didn’t even fucking cry, the goddamn champ.”</p><p>“I did too,” Eddie insisted, weirdly petulant.</p><p>“Yeah, but that wasn’t cause’a your arm, bud,” Richie reminded him and Eddie, visibly recalling the clown and whatever the fuck that bastard had done to him before Richie and Bill showed up, shrugged and conceded the point. Fucking brave little bastard. Audra’s eyes narrowed.</p><p>“<em>Why</em> would you go back to the place where Eddie broke his arm? And nearly, what? twenty? <em>thirty</em> years later? If the floor was unstable back then, why would you think it’d hold up <em>now</em>?”</p><p>Bill opened his mouth, stammering worse than ever, “Wuh-w-w-well, for th-th-th-”</p><p>“- for the memories, obviously,” Richie covered for Bill who shot him a relieved, apologetic grimace. Audra didn’t look remotely convinced.</p><p>“Back to the main point,” Eddie grit out, looking like he was about to jump to his feet. “Bill. Why the fuck did you hit Richie?!”</p><p>And okay, Eddie’s fury was cathartic, no denying that. Especially when Bill seemed pretty wounded over it and <em>technically </em>he’d never apologized to Richie, instead showing up and being all, ‘<em>we gotta save Bev</em>,’ and then nearly getting himself dragged into a fucking hell-pit by a murder-clown and assuming Richie’s willingness to die for him also equated forgiveness. Which, in some ways, it did. In other ways, <em>it most certainly did not</em>.</p><p>“R-Richie was upset…” Bill started slowly, Eddie barreling right over him with “<em>So you fucking hit him</em>?!”</p><p>“In Bill’s defense I was being a little shit,” Richie added, drinking from his beer and trying not to fucking glow with how angry Eddie was on his behalf. Or the fact that Eddie would probably be pressed to call Bill <em>dreamy</em> from this point forward. Oh, and that special little fact that Richie was Eddie’s <em>favorite</em>.</p><p>And by the way, <em>what the fuck did </em>that<em> mean</em>?! He’d been obsessing over it since Eddie volunteered that information but Richie <em>still </em>didn’t know what to do with it except cuddle the thought ‘<em>I’m Eddie’s favorite</em>’ to his chest like a fucking stuffed animal.</p><p>(Again, the question that had been eating Richie up for weeks, ‘<em>do I have a chance? do I? do I!?</em>’ rattled around his skull like his head was a maraca.)</p><p>“You’re<em> always</em> being a little shit,” Eddie brushed Richie off easily. “That doesn’t mean you should get hit.”</p><p>Richie, trying to figure out why his heart translated that statement to ‘<em>I love you</em>’ so easily, tried to sound nonchalant when he mumbled, “No, I probably earned it <em>at least</em> a few times,” into the lip of his bottle.</p><p>“Bill,” Eddie breathed, sounding fucking devastated while he gestured towards Richie as if he had just proven some kind of point. “What the fuck.”</p><p>“H-He said some stuff I wuh-w-w- <em>fuck.</em>” Bill took a deep breath. “<em>Wasn’t</em> ready to hear,” he said slowly, stutter coming back worse now he was being interrogated, cutting an anxious look towards Audra. “About G-G-Georgie. And about you a-and Ben.”</p><p>Eddie’s face screwed up in confusion. “What about me and Ben?”</p><p>“Th-th-that you nearly got kuh-killed.” Bill shot Richie a long look, a strange expression on his face – something wounded and distant and evaluating. “Th-that <em>I </em>nearly got you both k-killed.”</p><p>Eddie’s features pinched into scowl. “First of all, no, we all made the decision to walk ourselves into that mess so it wouldn’t have been your fault. Right Rich?” And ugh, the tone of Eddie’s voice - like there was no doubt in his mind Richie was a better person than he actually was and would immediately jump up to spare Bill’s feelings - that fucking <em>hurt</em>.</p><p>Three sets of eyes swiveled towards Richie and he was pretty sure his face wasn’t nearly as neutral as he was aiming for.</p><p>“I mean, there was definitely an element of peer pressure…” Richie trailed off, trying not to look at Bill or Eddie or Audra and trying not be seen in turn which was <em>impossible </em>because yowza, those were some <em>burning </em>Looks. Richie didn’t want to fight with his friends – he just got them back! - and if there was any lingering frustrations with Bill, Richie was a fucking pro at throwing sheets over the problematic parts of his psyche for the sake of keeping things tidy. But all his sheets were feeling a little threadbare these days, those problems peeking through moth-eaten holes.</p><p>From the corner of his eye, Richie saw Bill scrub at his face and Eddie’s mouth open on a furious gape. <em>Awesome</em>. So much for being Eddie’s favorite.</p><p>“We all made the decision to walk in there, Richie,” Eddie repeated himself firmly and Richie struggled to swallow down the burble of words threatening to burst out of him.</p><p>But that was never something he was very good at.</p><p>“Yeah, sure,” Richie said, trying <em>very hard </em>to keep his voice light and joking when there was still an ember of that thirteen-year-old’s anger glowing deep inside him. “When all the people in the world I care about walk into a death-trap <em>twice</em>, I’m gonna follow. But that’s less a decision I get to make as it’s one that’s <em>forced</em> onto me.”</p><p>“Wuh-we had to g-go in there, Rich,” Bill said in that firm hero-voice, so fucking sure. “You know we did.”</p><p>Richie met his solid gaze and, with all the adultness he’d accumulated in the twenty-seven years since he’d last had this conversation with Bill, he somberly said, “No we <em>didn’t</em>, Bill.”</p><p>“<em>Richie</em>,” Eddie breathed and jesus. Fucking <em>jesus</em>.</p><p>“What about G-G-Georgie? Wuh-what about all the other kids?” Bill asked faintly, and that was always the worst card he could pull, the one you couldn’t contest without being an asshole but hey, Richie <em>was </em>an asshole - hadn’t Audra just reminded everyone of that? - and if no one else was gonna set Bill straight on this, what choice did he have?</p><p>“What about Eddie and his broken arm?” The image snapped into place: the clown, his huge gloved hand all over Eddie’s terrified face, those heinous teeth bared that had torn so many other kids to pieces. The Deadlight vision flashed next - Eddie impaled, Eddie coughing up dark blood, Eddie dying with his eyes open, and Richie fought off a shiver. “What about Ben’s stomach? He coulda been <em>gutted</em>.”</p><p>And then the worst one, the one Richie had invented in his head because he wasn’t there but he’d thought about it enough that it was crisper than a memory – Stan in a tub stained red with blood, scared and alone and doing the thing he thought he had to do to keep everyone safe because they’d made a promise. Bill made them promise.</p><p>Richie’s throat cracked when he finally said, “What about <em>Stan</em>,” and Eddie’s bottomless eyes locked onto him like two dark pits.</p><p>Bill, teary but tight-jawed, fought to seem unmoved.</p><p>“You were blinded by grief, Bill, and I get that, really, I do. But you fucking <em>screamed </em>at Eddie in that kitchen when he was rightfully terrified. He nearly fucking died down there, man, you have no -” Richie cut himself off with a gasp, Eddie speared through the chest and begging ‘<em>Richie…</em>’ flashing bright in front of his open eyes, “- you have <em>no</em> fucking idea, and it would a been <em>you</em> and <em>me </em>who talked him into going down there.”</p><p>And that was it – the thing Richie couldn’t fucking stand. Eddie looking so fucking scared and talking himself down in the cistern had torn Richie to shreds. He couldn’t hear Eddie talking about himself that way, the way Mrs. K always talked about him to make him feel small and sick and pathetic. And Richie – because he was fucking <em>stupid</em> – had cupped Eddie’s cheek and bared the thing that burned in him so bright it may as well light his heart on fire. Eddie was bravery personified. He was scared but he never let being scared stop him from <em>anything</em> – not jumping in the quarry or breaking into the dump or fighting a killer fucking clown to save his friends.</p><p>But Richie’s little impassioned speech nearly got Eddie killed. If It had gotten him – if Richie hadn’t rolled him out of the way – Eddie would be <em>dead </em>and it would be all Richie’s fucking fault.</p><p>Well, Bill’s fault too. Richie wasn’t above sharing that responsibility.</p><p>After a long moment where everyone uncomfortably stared at Richie, Eddie cleared his throat. “<em>You’re </em>the one who nearly died down there, Rich,” Eddie reminded him, and even though Richie couldn’t meet his eyes, he could see horror pulling Eddie’s face down into a scowl. Richie forcibly held back a shrug. “<em>You literally almost died</em>, Richie.”</p><p>Bill cringed.</p><p>Everyone always wanted to pretend Bill could do no fucking wrong but he was just as fallible as the rest of them. Trouble was, sometimes Richie thought Bill drank a little too much of his own fucking Kool-aid.</p><p>When Stan had nearly gotten his face ripped off by that horrible woman, Bill had hardly blinked even though Stan had been screaming ‘<em>You left me! You made me go into Neibolt</em>!’ Stan’s voice had echoed around in Richie’s head for <em>years</em> after that, he <em>still </em>heard it in some of his dreams (the non-Deadlight nightmares which he had <em>aplenty</em> and were barely any better than those macabre visions).</p><p>But Bill was too caught up in balancing his emotionally absent parents and dating Bev after It to notice that Stan’s anxiety got worse and Eddie’s anger issues flared and Mike dove into research with the kind of obsession that bordered on mania. Ben started skipping meals and even though Bill was <em>dating </em>her, he never questioned when Bev started smoking too much and picking fights with the girls at school.</p><p>But <em>Richie </em>noticed. He watched his friends unravel one at a fucking time. And sure, Bev was a million times better off without her father and Eddie was finally out from under his mother’s thumb but did they really need to fight a shapeshifting clown to get to that point? <em>Did they? </em>Could someone fucking answer that, please?</p><p>And then Bill left. Which Richie knew, deep down, wasn’t his fault. His parents decided to move and they were kids so there was nothing he could have done to stop it. But that was Bill, right? He got to play the hero in the moment and look down at everyone from his moral high ground and leave all the messy clean up to his trusty fucking side-kicks.</p><p>Sure. The clown was dead now and the world (or Derry at least) was a slighter safe place because of it and who knew how far that sort of shit would ripple out – all the kids who would otherwise be alien fodder free to live their lives and cure cancer or become skin-heads or whatever the fuck their little hearts desired. But what about Stan? Was losing <em>Stan </em>worth that?</p><p>Richie was a selfish man and in his heart, the answer was a firm and conclusive <em>no</em>.</p><p>“Listen, it’s <em>good </em>that what happened to Georgie won’t happen to any other kid but you can’t pretend that all of us did… what we did,” he shot a belated look at Audra who looked intense and curious, reigning himself in, “because it was the <em>right </em>thing to do. That’s your shtick, Bill.<em> I</em> did it for the Losers. I did it for Eddie and Mike and Bev and fucking Ben. And <em>you</em>, obviously.” And then, because nearly everyone at the table looked like they were one stiff breeze away from bursting into tears, Richie screwed on a smile and said, “And what do I get for all that? A fist to the face,” with as much humor as he could force into his wrecked voice.</p><p>“I’m ruh-r-r- <em>fuck</em> –” Bill took another deep breath. “I’m r-really sorry about hitting you, Richie, I suh-s-swear,” Bill admitted and Richie’s eyebrows climbed up his face.</p><p>“That’s the first time you’ve said that,” Richie admitted, faintly shocked to finally hear the words that heartbroken thirteen year old kid nursing a bloody nose had been aching for the second his feet touched the pedals of his bike. And maybe Richie was <em>really </em>fucking pathetic but a lot of his anger dissolved, a weird rush of shame flooding through him to replace it.</p><p><em>It </em>wasn’t Bill’s fault. Bill, the noble asshole, was only doing the right thing, fighting evil, saving the town, avenging his poor dead brother. And an asshole like Richie was lucky to call a guy like Bill his friend. Richie smiled faintly at Bill, shrugging and shaking his head, the closest he could get to saying, ‘<em>it’s all good</em>,’ without legitimately breaking down into tears.</p><p>Eddie, however, went incandescent with rage. “You hit him and you never <em>apologized</em>?!” he gasped, cutting the air fiercely with his hands. “<em>Bill</em>.”</p><p>“I – I thought I did! D-didn’t I?”</p><p>Richie made a face and shook his head. A weight lifted off Richie’s chest – the one he’d been harboring for thirty years, the one labeled ‘<em>Bill Denborough hates me now</em>’. He hadn’t realized how heavy it had gotten until it was gone.</p><p>“<em>Shit</em>,” Bill breathed, setting his beer on the table to lean forward and lay his hand on Richie’s shoulder. Then he turned his serious, dream-boat eyes to him and Richie was hit with the full blast of Big Bill’s magnetic <em>realness</em>, the kind that withered him when he was a child and absolutely flayed him alive now. “I’m sorry I hit you, Richie. I was a scared kid and you said all the things I didn’t want to think about but I<em> nuh-never</em> should have punched you.”</p><p>When Bill turned to Eddie and rested his other hand on Eddie’s forearm, Richie took the opportunity to swipe at his eyes underneath his glasses. “And I’m sorry I yelled at you in Neibolt house, Eddie. I –” He swallowed heavily. “I d-didn’t realize I had <em>more </em>to lose than Georgie. I shouldn’t have yelled at you – I s-should have told you how brave you are, like Richie did,” and what the fuck was wrong with Richie that the proud, fatherly look Bill shot him made a fresh wave of tears explode out of his eyes? “Who knew this Trashmouth had a speech like that in him?”</p><p>Eddie’s eyes met Richie’s across the table and The Look Eddie gave him clearly said, ‘<em>I did</em>.’</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Despite the heaviness of the start of their evening, it was <em>easy </em>hanging out with Bill, same as it always had been – like coming home at the end of a long day and changing into comfortable clothing. And Audra was decent enough company once Eddie stopped shooting her star-struck glances and indoctrinated her into the group by vehemently fighting with her over the rules of Pictionary. Because he was <em>Eddie </em>so of course he had to lay down a variety of fucking ground-rules and then break almost every single one of them.</p><p>Now that they’d talked it out – now Richie hadn’t been reduced to screaming his mixed up feelings on Bill’s front lawn with the all the emotional intelligence of thirteen years – some of the tension he used to feel in Bill’s presence ebbed away. Not all at once like fucking magic, unfortunately, but the stiffness in Richie’s shoulders was less pronounced.</p><p>And fuck, hanging out with any of the Losers was fun. Richie was having a <em>way </em>better time listening to Eddie’s furious rants about the proper way to draw the concept of time and making Bill snort beer out his nose with bad impressions than Richie ever had at the blow-out celebrity parties he used to frequent to quiet the noise of his own thoughts. Drunk Bill was even more prone to laughing at Richie’s joke than sober Bill and Eddie just about crapped out a kitten when they lit up a joint and passed it around, only taking a hit himself after Richie teased him mercilessly about his irrational fear of cooties and turned the whole thing into an intricately orchestrated dare because Eddie <em>never </em>refused a dare.</p><p>Richie was so distracted by how fucking <em>happy </em>he was that when he stood up to grab another round of beers for the table, he didn’t notice Audra had followed him until her voice startled him into banging his head on the inside of the fridge.</p><p>“Shit, sorry,” Audra said, holding up her hands apologetically. “You’re just as jumpy as Bill is these day.” Richie was spared having to come up with an un-incriminating response because she plowed on a little drunkenly, “Can I ask you something without you thinking I’m a massive bitch?”</p><p>Richie snorted still massaging the lump on the top of his head. “Ship sailed on that when you brought up Sandy.” Audra only grinned at that, crossing her arms looking neatly smug. “Also I live with Eddie and he is, like, the biggest bitch I know so…”</p><p>She accepted the open beer Richie handed her absently, downing two big swallows before she cringed and said, “About Bill’s stutter…”</p><p>When that was apparently all she was going to elaborate, Richie asked, “What about it?” utterly nonplussed.</p><p>“He didn’t have it two months ago,” she grit out slowly, glancing through the open door to where Eddie and Bill still sat at the patio table, the orange haze of sunset backlighting their silhouettes. “It’s not like it <em>bothers</em> me, but... it’s <em>weird </em>right? Who goes away for a week to Maine and comes back with a <em>stutter</em>?”</p><p>Richie shoved his glasses higher up his nose, smudging the lens. “He’s <em>always</em> had a stutter?”</p><p>“…What?” Audra said and it was right about <em>there </em>that Richie realized he’d stepped into a conversation he probably shouldn’t be having. Him and his big stupid mouth.</p><p>“Uh – I think I hear Eddie calling me,” Richie fumbled for an escape even though Eddie definitely wasn’t calling him, he was laughing at something Bill said, the sound of their mirth intermingling with the soothing rush of waves.</p><p>But Audra clapped a hand on Richie’s arm and he only slightly cowered under her intensity.</p><p>“What do you mean he’s <em>always </em>had a stutter? Since when?”</p><p>“Since <em>always</em>. He had it when I met him when he was fucking <em>seven</em>.”</p><p>“When did it stop?”</p><p>“I don’t know. He moved away when he was sixteen but he had it then too.”</p><p>“Jesus,” Audra breathed. “I thought it was a symptom of stress or something. The director was really riding his ass about the ending, especially after he disappeared for a week to Maine,” She shot Richie a pointed Look that Richie refused to acknowledge, “but Bill never told me he had a stutter when he was a kid.”</p><p>“Maybe he was embarrassed,” Richie threw out, hoping he was at least a little bit convincing. He really didn’t want to be involved with whatever marital issues these were but… here he was. Lucky fucking him.</p><p>“Bill never told me he had a dead baby brother, either,” Audra said, eyes locked on Richie like she was trying to see straight through to his brain. “Georgie, right? That’s who you guys were talking about earlier?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Richie said a little lamely, realizing how much harder dealing with the whole It thing would be if you had someone who actually cared about you outside of the Losers. He didn’t envy Bill for having to navigate a relationship he’d built on the roots of amnesia.</p><p>“Nor was Bill the kind of guy who, after a <em>really stressful </em>shoot, calls up his buddies to hang out the second he gets back into town. Hell, I didn’t even know Bill had any friends in LA.” Richie tried<em> hard </em>not to look at the luggage still standing next to the front doorway, the boxes stacked in the far corner clearly labeled ‘<em>BOOKS</em>’ and ‘<em>ARTIFACTS</em>’ in Mike’s beautiful handwriting, but they were just sitting there, glaring at him.</p><p>“You know, he wanted to watch your Netflix special when it came out a few years ago,” Audra hedged, her huge, movie star eyes trying to x-ray him. “I told him I didn’t want to – out of solidarity to Sandy, don’t take it personally -” she added when Richie made a wounded noise and faux clutched his chest.</p><p>“I mean that sounds <em>extremely </em>personal…”</p><p>“- but he never said <em>anything </em>about knowing you since he was <em>seven</em>.”</p><p>“I mean that was <em>definitely </em>embarrassment. Who would admit to knowing <em>me</em> if they didn’t have to?” But Audra stared down Richie’s self-deprecating joke like she was playing bad cop and Richie had no fucking defense against that sort of thing.</p><p>“Any chance you want to tell me what the fuck <em>actually </em>happened in that hometown of yours?” she demanded flat out and Richie froze with a beer bottle halfway up to his mouth. “I’m not stupid. You’re all being super secretive about <em>something</em>.”</p><p>“Have you talked to Bill about any of this?” Richie asked, voice high and squeaky. Awesome. Playing it <em>super </em>cool.</p><p>“Obviously,” Audra bit out, taking another long sip from her beer. “But he won’t tell me anything and he keeps acting like it’s for my own good. He didn’t used to keep secrets from me,” she sighed, and Richie hated how much she looked like Bev because his instinct was to wrap her up in a hug and console her but that sort of familiarity would probably be pretty unwelcome. “What am I supposed to do?”</p><p>“Uhhh –” and, <em>thank</em> <em>fuck</em>, he was saved from having to answer by Eddie shouting “Richie! Come tell this asshole I’m not your fucking <em>sugar baby</em>!”</p><p>A strangled laugh climbed itself up Richie’s throat and he shrugged, trying not to look as panicked as he felt. “Duty calls,” he said, grabbing the half empty six-pack and escaping lickety-fucking-split, <em>very </em>aware of Audra at his heels as he strode out onto the deck. “Eddie is <em>absolutely </em>my sugar baby and if you talk him out of that, Bill, I will never forgive you,” he said theatrically, handing out the beers and determinedly sipping slowly at his own because Audra looked like she was ready to grab him and shake him in hopes some answers might fall out.</p><p>Which meant he shouldn’t get too drunk and he couldn’t let her catch him alone again for fear his stupid mouth would start to run. Somehow, ‘<em>your husband didn’t tell you we murdered a fear-moster? yeesh, what do you think that means for your marriage</em>?’ probably wouldn’t go over super great.</p><p>So Richie was fairly relieved when, after they stuffed themselves with takeout and watched an episode of <em>Westworld</em>, Eddie started nodding off against Richie’s shoulder. Richie took the keys despite Eddie’s sleepy protests and Bill walked them to the car, clearly unwilling to part, Audra trailing in their wake and half-glaring at Richie like she was trying to break him into tiny pieces.</p><p>Thankfully, after their goodbyes turned into a long and winding conversation about the Marvel Cinematic Universe and how it compared to the comics they used to absorb like sponges, Audra excused herself back into the house. Richie waited until the door snapped closed behind her before landing a hand on Bill’s shoulder and pulling him and Eddie into a tighter circle.</p><p>“Dude, you’ve gotta talk to your wife,” Richie told Bill flatly, Eddie’s head jerking up to catch Richie with an adorable expression of confusion. “She cornered me in the kitchen and that woman <em>does not </em>put up with bullshit. Next time we come over she’ll have my nuts hooked up to a car battery.”</p><p>Eddie snorted freely - more an indication that he was tired than anything else, usually Richie had to wheedle the laughs out of him - while Bill scrubbed at his stressed face and sighed, somehow <em>still </em>looking more like the kind of guy who should be getting Netflix specials than Richie did. Ugh. The dreamy bastard.    </p><p>“I don’t know,” Bill hummed, leaning against Richie’s Mustang and staring up at the sky. “W-Would she even <em>believe </em>me?”</p><p>“I mean, she’s your wife so shouldn’t she?”</p><p>Both Bill and Eddie took on a bleak thousand-yard-stare and if it weren’t for the fact that there were a very specific and unique set of circumstances surrounding him and his friends, Richie would really start doubting the convention of marriage as a whole.</p><p>“And even if she <em>did </em>believe me, is that f-fair?” Bill asked, getting a little heated. “Is it <em>ruh-r-r-right</em> to tell her about this whole fucking horrifying facet of the world she doesn’t nuh-n-n-n – fuck – <em>need</em> to know about?” It was obvious Bill was really genuinely asking them, looking for advice, but Eddie cut A Look at Richie that told him he was just as out of his depths talking about philosophical shit as Richie was.</p><p>“Oh man,” Richie hummed, rubbing at the back of his neck. “This sounds like a Mike conversation, buddy.”</p><p>Bill, the obvious fuck, lit up at the mention of Mike. Oh boy, maybe letting his marriage crumble was <em>exactly </em>the right thing to do. On the other hand, how would Mike feel talking about Bill’s <em>relationship problems </em>when Mike also had a pretty noticeable crush?</p><p>“Or maybe Ben,” Richie amended hurriedly, thinking out loud.</p><p>“Yeah, Ben’s apparently the romance expert, dude,” Eddie backed Richie up, looking just as wide-eyed and horrified as Richie felt. “Call up Ben. He’ll know what to do.”</p><p>Bill nodded a little, stuffing his hands in his pockets and glancing back up to his house.</p><p>“And hey,” Richie added, chuffing Bill with his elbow. “If Audra divorces your ass, you can always come live with us!”</p><p>Bill, for all his obvious dreamy inner turmoil, shrugged in a ‘<em>that’s not a bad idea</em>’ kind of way and Richie strangled his childish, inappropriately timed joy.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>That night, after Eddie final fell asleep mid-ramble about Audra’s impressive filmography and how insane it was <em>Bill </em>was married to a rising star in Hollywood and the dark wood flooring in their living room that Richie <em>knew </em>he was going to like, Richie blinked a little stupidly at Eddie’s unfairly adorable sleeping pout, the one that was blurry because his glasses were on the nightstand so Eddie was reduced to impressionistic brushstrokes. A dark slash for his brow. Two dark crescents for his thick eyelashes. A softer, muted line for his mouth. Even out of focus Richie could look at him forever.</p><p>And, as it often did when Richie was lying in bed, aching to turn into the heated space of Eddie’s body and wrap him up in his arms, the Forbidden Thought resurfaced.</p><p><em>Did</em> Richie have a chance with Eddie?</p><p>That was the million dollar question. The one that kept Richie awake late into the night, tossing and turning. The one that bashed him over the head when they fought over what music to listen to in the car. The one that sprang up unwelcome when Eddie huffed out a surprised snort anytime one of Richie’s jokes caught him off guard. The one that made Richie’s chest swell with the unfamiliar feeling of <em>possibility</em>.</p><p>Eddie obviously <em>loved </em>him. Richie wasn’t stupid. And he knew - because Eddie had <em>told </em>him, the precious fucking goblin - that he was Eddie’s <em>favorite</em>. Which was just fucking incredible even if Richie’s heart kinda hurt every time Eddie used the expression ‘<em>best friend</em>’ because seriously, Richie spent so much time thinking about him naked it was probably encroaching some sort of crime.</p><p>But could Eddie’s platonic friend love turn into something more? </p><p>The thing was, Richie had no idea how to navigate that potential. Half the time he felt like he could’t <em>stop </em>flirting with Eddie, disguising the compliments and declarations of love as jokes because that shit just poured out of him if he opened his mouth for too long, his entire body full to brim of ‘<em>Eddie Eddie Eddie</em>’ that it overflowed if he wasn’t careful. </p><p>The wildest thing was this wasn’t the first time he’d seriously considered confessing his feelings. He’d chickened out of it last time, obviously, because <em>of course </em>he had. Richie Tozier was a coward to his fucking core.</p><p>He’d even gone to all the trouble to set them up a fucking <em>date </em>the last night Eddie was in Derry before he left for NYU; cooked him dinner and served him wine by fucking <em>candlelight</em> like a goddamn cliché, every moment working up the nerve to spill his guts because at least if Eddie scoffed or stormed out horrified or gently let him down, Eddie wouldn’t have to live long with the knowledge his disgusting friend Richie was a total homo over him for very long – whatever happened when the Losers left Derry stealing Richie from him for good.</p><p>Any other fucking guy would probably have gotten at least a hint at what Richie was doing – Richie had been going for obvious, hoping Eddie might catch a hint of what was happening and ease Richie down gently because, despite everything about Eddie’s personality, he was a real standup guy. The fucking best. So Richie tried his hardest to look presentable and he cooked Eddie’s favorite meal and again there were fucking <em>candles </em>for fuck’s sake! He’d even walked Eddie all the way to his door trying to sike himself up to steal a kiss - but Eddie had no idea Richie was very pathetically trying to woo him which was sort of an answer in and of itself. </p><p>He didn’t think of Richie <em>like that</em>. And that was okay. Richie could live with it. Or at the very least, he was on his own way out of town and maybe, if he was really lucky, he’d forget Eddie and forget he was gay and forget he was so fucking disposable to everyone he loved and start a new life somewhere fresh.</p><p>But forty-year-old Richie knew something eighteen-year-old Richie didn’t: Eddie didn’t think of Richie <em>like that</em> but it wasn’t because Eddie was the same flavor of painfully straight and brutally homophobic like every other fuckwad from Derry. He might, even, be capable of holding feelings that weren’t strictly platonic for a man.</p><p>In some ways that was worse. Richie was just <em>so </em>unimaginable in a romantic sense that Eddie was blind to Richie’s very unsubtle come-ons. <em>But</em>, counter-argument, Eddie was blind to romance <em>entirely</em>, apparently, so maybe it wasn’t just a Richie thing. </p><p>Bad news was that meant doing the whole ‘<em>do you maybe want to jerk each other off</em>’ eyebrow raise that earned Richie a variety of hand jobs from other mostly closeted men wasn’t an option. Which sucked because that was low stakes enough that - were Eddie not an emotionally stunted weasel - Richie could comfortably test the waters without worrying about ruining what they had going. <em>In fact</em>, Richie suspected he could scatter his bed with rose petals and wait for Eddie naked with a fucking bow tied around his dick and Eddie would only complain about pesticides getting on the sheets. </p><p>Which meant Richie had to <em>tell </em>him. With words. Words that weren’t sarcastic or a joke or a dirty limerick. Like a normal, emotionally healthy adult. One who talked about his feelings without running for the fucking hills.</p><p>Honestly, Richie wasn’t entirely sure that was physically possible for him but again, if the end result was <em>being with Eddie</em>, he’d probably have to <em>try </em>which was just… fucking <em>terrifying</em>.</p><p>Before Richie could do talk himself into doing something truly, devastatingly stupid, more data was needed - like, <em>a lot </em>more data. Which wasn’t to say he was going to <em>stop </em>treating Eddie like the boyfriend he wished he had. Because Richie probably couldn’t stop doing that, even on threat of his life. </p><p>But… Richie had never in a gajillion years imagined his endless unrequited love could be anything but that and the strange sensation of <em>hope </em>was so radically unfamiliar, Richie didn’t know what to fucking do with it.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Full disclosure here: this fucking behemoth has apparently turned into some sort of comfort project for me and it's length keeps expanding my expectations. It's got at least eighteen chapters at the moment and it's creeping closer to 200,000 words and there's plenty more in my head still sooo... yeah. Fair warning if anyone wants to jump ship. But I am thoroughly enjoying writing this even if it's kinda rambling and nowhere near structured so expect a lot more of this morons-to-lovers story cause there's plenty to go around.</p><p>Thanks for reading!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter Thirteen</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: Sonia's homophobia, mentions of underage drinking, suicide as a manipulation tactic, anxiety attacks</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Out of principle alone, Eddie dragged Richie to seven more house viewings though ‘<em>dragged</em>’ maybe wasn’t the right word. Richie happily traded his homey sweat-pants for jeans at the slightest suggestion and whistled and ‘hmm’ed at all the right places as they were led around house after house after house, bantering with the real estate agent like they were old friends, the same way he talked to everyone from the check-out lady at CVS to the overly friendly squirrel they crossed paths with on the walk back to their car.</p><p>It never ceased to amaze Eddie how people <em>liked </em>Richie. How he won them over so easily. How he turned strangers into friends in the breath of three sentences. Or how, with Richie at his elbow, people treated <em>Eddie </em>differently too, looked at him with kinder eyes, smiled at his sarcastic retorts. They fit together still, even after so much time had passed. Thank fucking god because they were going to <em>live together </em>and if Eddie was moving in with anyone else after having known them essentially a month and a half, he’d be freaking the fuck out but Richie made it so easy. The dumb, giant idiot.</p><p>And despite all the lofted ceilings and palm-tree studded backyards and wide glass windows they saw, Eddie kept on circling back to the Topanga Canyon house.  </p><p>It had felt <em>right</em> – like coming home – more so than his mother’s stuffy house in Derry or the townhouse that was more Myra’s than his in Chelsea. Eddie could already see the Losers comfortable there, Richie cooking breakfast in the patch of sunlight that came in through the kitchen sunroof, Bill and Mike lounging by the outdoor fireplace and talking about Greek poetry or something equally lame. Ben could grill everyone organic hotdogs on the barbeque while Bev stretched out on a towel next to the pool like a supermodel.</p><p>But Eddie had never been the type to jump headfirst into a decision so they wandered around a variety of neutrally decorated houses all over LA, inspecting bathrooms and admiring views while Eddie wondered if any of the objectively fancier houses would entice Richie away from the Topanga house. But Richie, critically eye-balling another frankly <em>gorgeous</em> shower stall, would shoot Eddie a meaningful glance and say, “I bet this wouldn’t be too hard to install – or fuck, I mean you can pay people to do shit like this, right?”</p><p>And Eddie kept murmuring, “I like what they did with this window seat,” while thinking about how it would look overseeing the mountains in Topanga Pass.</p><p>The evening after the seventh viewing – a house that had bigger windows but a much less enticing lawn – Eddie made up his mind.</p><p>“Fuck it, let’s do it,” he said, tossing the kitchen towel down fiercely. Richie blinked myopically up at him, a smile starting to curl the edges of his mouth. “We like the Topanga house. Let’s just fucking do it.”</p><p>“<em>Ding ding ding! We have a winner!</em>” Richie cheered in a surprisingly decent WWF announcer Voice, pulling up his email to draft a message to the real estate agent. Eddie eventually shoved him over, scooting the other chair into Richie’s space and banging his knee against Richie’s thigh to edit the email Richie had written which stupidly consisted of a gif of Julia Louis-Dreyfus opening up a golden envelope at the Emmys and a link to the house listing on Zillow.</p><p>They had an agreed upon price by the next day, largely because the house had been on the market for a long time and the sellers were willing to accept the slightly-lower-than-suggested-bid Eddie kept insisting Richie start with. Between the sellers looking to unload the property and Richie’s ability to pay upfront, they’d have the house in a week (assuming everything with the inspectors went according to plan) which was… surreal.</p><p>Eddie and Richie were going to move in together.</p><p><em>Technically </em>they were already living together – the two of them spent the week closing the deal packing up Richie’s apartment (Eddie frankly horrified at how out of date some of the food in pantry was – he <em>better </em>not have been cooking with any of that shit) – but what they had going on in Richie’s apartment felt a little bit more like squatting, what with the empty space where the couch used to be and the stolen kitchen table barely big enough for two grown men.</p><p>The house would be a space for the two of them (for the <em>six</em> of them, his brain automatically corrected, Richie was pretty serious about the Losers getting their own rooms and was already placing bets on which ones they’d pick out which was dorky as fuck but also stupidly sweet, the big lonely doofus). And that thirteen-year-old kid that still felt like most of Eddie’s personality - the one who had been convinced Richie would be around <em>forever </em>obviously, they were <em>best fucking friends </em>(fuck what Richie said, they <em>were</em>) - was thrilled out of his mind. They never had to <em>stop </em>hanging out. He didn’t have to go home to his mother or his wife or (heaven fucking forbid) some cramped, lonely little divorcee-pad in shitty fucking New York.</p><p>He got to live with his best friend instead. He currently existed in a world where he got to wake up and make fun of Richie’s bedhead and try to figure out why Richie’s pancakes tasted so good and then tag-teamed the fancy new French press Richie had bought so they could experiment with different coffee roasts. The two of them could spend <em>every </em>weekend binge-watching the movies they would have seen together if they hadn’t forgotten each other, sipping beers and laughing at bad comedies. His nightly ritual of ruffling a hand through Richie’s surprisingly soft hair didn’t have an end date because <em>most </em>nights they’d probably wind up hanging out until both of them were yawning, muttering sleepy ‘<em>goodnight</em>’s in the dark.</p><p>It was while Eddie was watching Richie go through his closet (Eddie forcing him to purge the stuff that didn’t fit him because he <em>definitely </em>recognized some patterns from Richie’s earliest stand-ups and Richie was way too fucking broad to ever fit in a size medium without popping the buttons off his shirt like the fucking hulk) when Richie spun, three baseball hats overlaying each other on his head, and said, “I think you should sign the title with me.”</p><p>Eddie, who was still imagining the fabric of the hideous geometric-patterend shirt in Richie’s hand straining across Richie’s chest, blinked and asked, “The title of <em>what</em>?”</p><p>“Uhhh, the title of the house obviously,” Richie said, whipping off one of his three hats and padding over to Eddie to smush it onto his head. After a moment of thoughtful consideration, Richie spun it around so it was backwards, no doubt fucking up Eddie’s hair. “Or is that called a deed? ‘<em>Deed</em>’ sounds so cartoony, like some burglar in a cat mask is gonna break in and steal it out of a safe.”</p><p>“Why the fuck would I sign the deed to your house?” Eddie asked, ignoring the rambling by rote and smacking Richie’s hands away, which had strayed to pinching his cheeks, and then resettled the hat on his head, a little too happy with the smile Richie was trying to hide.</p><p>“Cause it’ll be your house too?” They were closing the deal tomorrow, and since Richie was paying the total upfront, his financial advisor handling the money transfer ready to do so at the ring of a phone (barring any unforeseen problems), the house would be theirs – <em>truly </em>theirs - by the end of the day. They were both a little giddy about it but Eddie was doing a significantly better job hiding it.</p><p>“I’m not putting in any money, Rich,” Eddie reminded him, in case the idiot had somehow forgotten. “My shits all tied up in the divorce.”</p><p>Which was going… okay. Under the pressure of Eddie pushing for a divorce on the grounds of cruel and inhuman treatment, Myra had given up contesting the divorce, probably thanks in part to her lawyer who saw Eddie’s determination to not drag the proceedings out as a weakness and was already trying to wring him dry. But Eddie would have to travel out to New York before the end of the year, maybe even more than once. And he was well aware it was unwise to rack up any huge expenditures when Myra’s cut-throat lawyer might sense blood in the water and push to take their separation to trial.</p><p>“I know,” Richie said, tossing his hats in the <em>donate</em> pile and the undersized shirt in the <em>save</em> pile. Upon closer inspection, it was definitely the same shirt he’d worn for his first recorded special, the one Eddie had seen a million times on Comedy Central, sick with a yearning he couldn’t understand. Eddie ran his hand along the ugly geometric print and smiled. “It’ll still be your house.”</p><p>“Sure,” Eddie insisted, swiping the hat off his head and dropping it too into the <em>donate</em> pile. Richie <em>did not </em>need a trucker hat that said ‘I PEE IN POOLS’. <em>No one </em>needed that. “But technically it’ll be <em>your </em>house.”</p><p>“Why not make it <em>technically </em>half yours?”</p><p>“Because I don’t have millions of dollars to my name?”</p><p>“I looked it up – the cosigner doesn’t need to have paid half the money to own half the house.”</p><p>“No. But I <em>would </em>wind up paying a crap ton of taxes on a house I could never afford without a mortgage and some sort of deal with the devil.”</p><p>“Oh,” Richie said, sliding what looked like a Top Gun jumpsuit (a Halloween costume, Eddie <em>hoped</em>) off a hanger and tossing it into the donate pile. Eddie, feeling like the thirteen-year-old him who used to love trying on Richie’s most ridiculous outfits just to mock him, immediately snatched it up and started pulling it on over his workout shorts behind Richie’s back.</p><p>“Yeah, ‘<em>oh</em>’, asshole,” Eddie grumbled, wiggling into the jumpsuit. It was a little big on him, he’d have to roll the cuffs, but there was no way Richie would fit in it now, not with how snuggly it fit around Eddie’s waist.</p><p>Richie spun around with an armful of the world’s rattiest towels and promptly dropped them all over the floor. “<em>Holy fuck</em>.”</p><p>“What?” Eddie asked, zipping himself up and frowning at Richie’s stupidly slack-jawed face.  When Richie couldn’t scrape enough brain cells together to answer, Eddie wandered into the bathroom to see how he looked (probably pretty stupid considering Richie’s completely blank face). Eddie didn’t think it was <em>that</em> bad – it fit him pretty decent, or as decent as any cheap costume could fit anyone - and Halloween was coming up…</p><p>God, he hadn’t really celebrated Halloween in ages, not since Richie made him dress up so they could crash a house party in their senior year of high school. Richie had gone as Ace Ventura (ugly print shirt, weird pants – he hardly needed to change from the clothes he’d worn to school though he did need Eddie’s help styling his hair), probably mostly as an excuse to bend over and pretend his Voices were coming out of his ass literally instead of just figuratively. And Eddie, after a lot of cajoling, let Richie draw on his face with an eyeliner pen his sisters had left behind.</p><p>He’d was half expecting to look in the mirror and find a giant dick across his face but when Richie pulled away from him with an exaggerated “<em>Aaaaaaaand done,</em>” Eddie realized he’d been given an unpside-down triangle nose and whiskers like a cat.</p><p>Richie had cackled like a mad man when Eddie deadpanned, “<em>Absolutely not</em>.”</p><p>The sound of Richie clattering around pounded away from the closet and then rushed closer, his face fucking tomato red from whatever sprint he’d just done through his tiny apartment when he rounded the corner into the bathroom, his stupidly wide chest heaving. “Here,” he said, shoving something into Eddie’s hands. “Put ‘em on, put ‘em on!”</p><p>They were aviator sunglasses with a prescription so heavy the world went wildly out of focus when Eddie slipped them up his nose. Richie made some sort of noise – like he’d been punched in the gut or something – but Richie was full of noises so Eddie chose to ignore him in favor of trying to discern his own image in the mirror.</p><p>“Jesus, you’re fucking blind,” Eddie laughed even though he already knew that – had made a habit of slipping Richie’s broken glasses onto his face when he wanted to shut out the world and <em>think</em> - finally giving up on seeing himself through the blur and propping the glasses up on his forehead. The world came back into focus, including Richie’s red face and still heaving chest and his huge eyes which were exceptionally dark behind his lenses.</p><p>“We’re keeping that,” Richie said, voice cracking, his long arm reaching out to tug a bit on the zipper at Eddie’s chest. He cleared his throat and pulled his fingers back like he’d been burned, crossing his arms and swallowing so heavily Eddie <em>heard </em>it. What the fuck was up with him? “And you’re wearing that on Halloween. Maybe every other day too. Have you ever thought about becoming a pilot because that is a <em>really </em>good look for you.”</p><p>Eddie ignored the heat that threatened to darken his own cheeks, brushing past Richie to lean back on the bed and tilt the glasses back over his eyes, the world blurring again. The Richie shaped blob padded back over to the closet but he kept facing Eddie like he couldn’t bear to turn away.</p><p><em>Good</em>, Eddie thought, always content when he captured Richie’s full attention.</p><p>Did Richie <em>mean </em>it when he said Eddie looked good? No way, right? That was absurd. But Richie had been calling him ‘<em>cute</em>’ since they were eleven, usually complete with cheek pinchings and noogies and sometimes hugs that picked him up off the ground and swung him around.</p><p>And Richie held onto that habit all the way to their teens, all the way to <em>adulthood</em>, apparently, because he <em>still</em> did it, usually at least three times a week. And it didn’t annoy Eddie as much as it probably should – he didn’t think Richie was <em>entirely </em>making fun of him and even when he was a kid and hated being smaller than everyone else, he sort of <em>liked </em>being called cute. That was a fucking compliment, right? <em>Cute </em>might not have been the ideal (there were a million better words to be called) but Richie thinking he was cute wasn’t so bad. Not if it meant his face would light up and he’d tackle Eddie into the hammock and half-wrestle/half-tickle him until he was sure his sides would burst and they were both out of breath, panting and collapsed against each other.</p><p>Eddie tilted the glasses up again, the motion jerking Richie into action and he twirled back to the closet in a tornado of stupid long limbs. “Why do you want me to sign the title?” Eddie asked instead of interrogating Richie about the red flush climbing up the back of his neck even though Eddie <em>really </em>wanted to know if Tom Cruise was on his list of childhood celebrity crushes too.</p><p>(Richie had played a small part in a Tom Cruise movie in the late 2000’s so he’d probably met the guy. A stab of <em>something </em>poked through Eddie’s chest. Richie knew Cruise was a fucking Scientologist, right? He wouldn’t have a <em>crush </em>on a fucking <em>Scientologist</em>, right?)</p><p>Richie shrugged, one massive heave of his massive shoulders. “I just want you to, I dunno, feel ownership of it or whatever. I want it to be <em>our </em>house. The Tozier-Kaspbrak Estate.”</p><p>And why the fuck did that sound so fucking nice?</p><p>“Kaspbrak-Tozier,” Eddie corrected, tucking away musings of whether Tom Cruise was gay where he wouldn’t have to look at them so close. “But you might not want me living there forever.”</p><p>“Why the fuck wouldn’t I?” Richie asked, voice muffled from inside the closet.</p><p>“You might get sick of me.”</p><p>Because that’s what people did, right? Eddie’s schoolmates in college. His coworkers. The people who shot him dirty looks at the gym for bitching out the guy sitting on the stationary bike with his legs up on the wheel cover fucking <em>texting </em>for thirty minutes, oblivious to Eddie furiously waiting his turn on the machine.</p><p>“Impossible,” Richie said flatly, obviously distracted.</p><p>Eddie trusted Richie not to throw him out onto the street – they’d fought before (when they were kids, it seemed like all they <em>did </em>was fight) but they still managed to share the same fucking hammock, still hung out, still slept smashed up next to each other in the same twin bed – so he didn’t think Richie would ever <em>kick him out</em>. But… and somehow Eddie had never thought about it until <em>that very minute</em>… now that Richie was out, he <em>could </em>meet someone.</p><p>“You might get a boyfriend and want some privacy,” Eddie said, voice hollow, something huge and cavernous opening up in his stomach.</p><p>Because even though he was the one bringing it up, that was somehow <em>impossible </em>to imagine. Even with half the Losers married when they reunited, it had never occurred to Eddie as even <em>remotely </em>possible that Richie would be in a relationship. He’d never dated anyone in high school – never brought up anyone from his classes or clubs with any consistency the way that all the other Losers did on occasion. Which Eddie supposed made sense - it wasn’t like he could talk about his crush on Stan <em>to Stan</em>.</p><p>Fuck, finding out about <em>Sandy Herrera</em>, his mysterious ex-girlfriend (whoever the fuck she was; fucking funny, probably, she wrote for the fucking <em>Simpsons</em>, Eddie already hated her, the show sucked now anyways) had been enough of a shock, the idea that Richie had spent any amount of time as someone’s <em>boyfriend </em>a weirdly untenable thought in Eddie’s brain.</p><p>For some reason, a memory chose that moment to slip back into place.</p><p>Senior prom. The other Losers except Mike were already gone, moved away from Derry, promises of phone calls and letters crumbled to dust. Mike had refused Richie’s goading to crash the dance with them and Eddie was only interested in going because Richie always looked like an idiot in a suit – the opportunity to tear into him too good to pass up. They agreed to go stag together in the hopes someone would spike the punchbowl, knowing they’d probably bail after an hour and crash in Richie’s basement watching old movies in uncomfortably stiff shirts.</p><p>Eddie still wasn’t quite sure how his mom found out about the dance - whether it was the dress slacks he’d pulled out and ironed a few days ahead of time or if it was Richie shouting, ‘<em>keep your dance card open for me, babe</em>,’ out his car window when he dropped him off after school like an asshole - but Sonia Kaspbrak had a knack for ruining the things Eddie was looking forward to and she didn’t disappoint. </p><p>“You can’t go to a dance with that <em>dirty</em> boy,” she’d spat, crossing her arms and blocking the only door out of the kitchen. “Don’t you know what people will say?”</p><p>Eddie didn't give a<em> shit</em> what people said and if that was the complex she wanted him to have, it was too late to start with it now. Besides she was being paranoid. He and Richie and Ben and Stan had all gone to homecoming together sophomore year and had a blast (aided by the schnapps Richie stole from his mother’s liquor cabinet) so it wasn’t <em>weird </em>to go to a dance with your friends. Plenty of other kids did it. It wasn’t like they were going <em>together</em>. Richie got weirdly defensive about innuendo like that (Eddie now understood a lot better his violent reaction to all the slurs that had always washed over Eddie because they didn’t dig into his most tender places).</p><p>Eddie’s mom threw a fit when he didn’t back down. Tried to ground him even though it had been a long time since he’d let her keep him locked up inside, sobbed when he shook her off, promised him she’d disown him if he went anywhere near Richie ever again which was <em>such </em>an overreaction but that was his mom in a fucking nutshell. </p><p>Not to be outdone, he dared her, “<em>Do it</em>,” high on his own audacity. “You really think I care?”</p><p>By seventeen, there was no doubt who Eddie would pick between his mother and his friends. Between his mother and <em>Richie</em>. Some part of her must have known that because she changed tactics.</p><p>It wasn’t until she threatened to take all the pills in the cabinet over the sink that he started panicking, wasn’t until she’d shaken out a handful of Xanax and screamed, “<em>I’ll do it, Eddie, I’ll do it for your own good</em>!” and started swallowing them down. It wasn't until she’d taken three, one at a time, counting them out saying, “<em>What’ll you do when I’m dead, Eddie, what’ll they say at my funeral? You’ll have killed your mother, Eddie, is that what you want</em>?” that he conceded, his tears blurring her gloating smile but he didn't let a single one fall.</p><p>He’d been so scared in that moment. Scared she’d kill herself and he’d have to live with the blame, that he’d have to answer the most horrible questions at the hospital or worse, the police station, and deal with more bitter looks than he already got from all her stuffy friends. He didn’t hate his mother so much he wanted her <em>dead</em>. He just wished she’d fucking give him some space to fucking <em>breathe</em>. Was that so much to ask?</p><p>(With a horrible new awareness, he remembered Myra at the hospital the night he tried asking for a divorce, cheeks wet with tears and eyes red with burst capillaries from getting her stomach pumped, expression quietly triumphant, voice soft and soothing when she rasped, “<em>I forgive you, Eddie-bear, I know you didn’t mean it</em>,” petting at his bowed head like he was a well-behaved dog.)</p><p>His mother set him up with a date. Eddie couldn’t even remember the girl’s name. He’d never met her before - she was the daughter of his mom’s friend and she went to an all girl’s school a town over so she was desperate enough for co-ed socialization to accept Eddie’s proposal sight-unseen.</p><p>His mom had dialed the phone for him, chatting for a while with someone on the other end and hovering over him expectantly, pill bottle in hand while Eddie grit through his clenched teeth, “Do you want to go to a dance?” to the mystery girl on the other end. She agreed easily enough and there was a long moment where Eddie debated asking if she had an equally desperate friend (preferably with even lower standards) so they could make a double date of it with Richie.</p><p>Eddie’s mouth opened on the thought but for some reason the words never left his mouth. Richie would probably put up with Eddie’s date a little more gracefully if he’d had one of his own, but the thought of Richie dressed up with some girl on his arm rubbed Eddie the wrong way, the space beside Richie sacred and reserved.</p><p>So he condemned Richie to third-wheeling which turned him into the worst type of asshole - the kind that kept saying borderline cruel things to the poor shy girl glued to Eddie’s side until, seemingly realizing how mean he was being, Richie wandered off to shoot the shit with a few guys he knew from theater club. Richie wound up leaving the dance early looking gangly as fuck in his suit and slicked back hair, shooting Eddie a jaunty salute across the gymnasium before backing out the side door.</p><p>He snuck in Eddie's window much later that night telling stupid jokes and asking lewd questions about how far Eddie got with his date, his suit rumpled, smelling like beer and hay and cigarettes meaning he'd run off to Mike's to hang out. </p><p>That was somehow much better than Richie taking a girl to the dance even though Eddie had been desperately bored without him, stuck alternately slow dancing or awkwardly loitering beside his mystery date until she very politely asked him to take her home. Then again, apparently Richie wouldn't have been too interested in a female date back then anyways so Eddie’s stomach didn’t have to be so tied up in knots over it.</p><p>Still, the thought of Richie finding someone - <em>a man</em>, one he’d bring home and introduce to the Losers and invite over for holidays and maybe even eventually <em>marry </em>- had those knots tying themselves in Eddie’s stomach all over again.</p><p>Richie snorted an ugly noise out of his nose and Eddie was jolted out of his thoughts. “I’m not exactly on the market at the moment, dude,” Richie said, kneeling on the floor, his ass sticking out of the closet. He was wearing the same dark jeans Eddie had spent too much time thinking about in the hospital and he found himself giving them more thought that they deserved again now. “I’ll be single until the day I die.” Eddie frowned. Was that a Stan thing? Was that Richie saying he was never going to love again? Was that how love <em>worked</em>? “Oh! I’ve got it!”</p><p>Richie turned, smiling broadly, eyes doing another sweep over Eddie, almost like he couldn’t help it. Heat hit Eddie hard in the gut.</p><p>“I’ll leave the house to you in my will.”</p><p>Eddie blinked. “<em>You </em>have a <em>will</em>?”</p><p>Eddie did too - he wasn’t a fucking <em>child </em>– but the idea that Richie had the forward planning skills to coordinate a <em>will </em>was somehow just as unimaginable as slotting some faceless man into the space beside him.</p><p>“Yeah,” Richie said like it was obvious. And maybe it was obvious (the bastard had a financial advisor after all) but any overt proof of Richie being An Adult was always a fucking surprise. “I’ve been meaning to make some changes to it anyways.”</p><p>“Changes like what?”</p><p>“Like including you guys in it,” Richie said, turning back to the closet. “Maybe I’ll split my money between you and Mike. Mikey probably needs it more – what kind of fucking chump-change does a librarian in Derry make? - but I gotta keep my Sugar-Spaghetti sitting pretty, even if I kick the bucket.”</p><p>“Okay, One: this conversation is morbid as fuck when you very nearly died less than a month ago,” Eddie started, getting mad; madder still when Richie only laughed, pulling out a snarl of electronic cords that clearly had no purpose and trying to drop them in the <em>keep </em>pile. “Two: who the fuck is in your will now?”</p><p>“Charities mostly. But, like, my folks are dead and my sisters don’t really keep in touch so they probably don’t need the money or they’d be calling more often, you know? I was figuring I’d split it between their kids – maybe make them spend the night in a haunted house or something to decide who’d inherit - but I’d <em>way </em>prefer lining your pockets, Eddie-baby. So you can get yourself a fucking jet to go along with that jumpsuit.”</p><p>Richie stole another peek over his shoulder and something about the gleam in his eyes made Eddie’s stomach do another flip.</p><p>“I’ve seen your bank account, asshole. You’re not <em>private jet </em>rich.”</p><p>“And isn’t that a fucking shame.” Richie was worrying his bottom lip between his teeth as he did another quick up-and-down glance at Eddie. And Eddie was way out his depths with shit like this so he couldn’t be <em>sure</em>…</p><p>But it <em>really </em>seemed like Richie was… <em>admiring </em>him. Seemingly in a way that implied he <em>liked </em>what he saw.</p><p>And Eddie (who always wanted Richie’s attention, who needed him to look at him and no one else, who greedily wanted every facet of Richie to keep for himself) felt the heat in his stomach travel further down, a rush of boiling excitement lighting him up from head to toe and lingering between his legs in a hot pulse that was normally contained to alone time in the shower.</p><p>Richie turned away, his shoulder blades defined under his fitted t-shirt, the muscles of his arms on prominent display, and Eddie had a sense memory of feeling that skin and corded strength underneath his fingers.</p><p>His dick gave another interested twitch.</p><p><em>What</em> <em>the actual fuck</em>?</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The identical grins they shot each other were a little insane when Eddie slid his key into the front door for the first time. But Richie was fucking <em>vibrating </em>with excitement, his eyes tearing up, the movers not due for another hour, and even though Eddie’s heart was racing and Myra or his mother would be telling him to calm down and think about his blood pressure, Richie only smiled wider, eyes sparkling behind his thick lenses when the latch caught and they let themselves into <em>their home</em> for the first time.</p><p>Richie giggled, the sound stupidly high, crazy sounding, and way too endearing. Eddie felt his cheeks stretch with a smile he couldn’t fight.</p><p>“I’m a <em>homeowner</em>, dude,” Richie said. “What the fuck?”</p><p>“It’s called being an adult,” Eddie sniped back but his voice couldn’t quite nail the sarcasm he’d been aiming for. “You’re about fifteen years too late to the party.”</p><p>“So I’m <em>fashionably </em>late is what you’re saying,” Richie joked back in a faux-suave Voice, giggling again and shoving Eddie over the threshold, getting dragged in himself when Eddie grabbed a fistful of his jacket and pulled him along. “We have a <em>house. I can’t believe we have a house</em>.” And Richie said <em>that </em>with so much awestricken sincerity Eddie didn’t have the heart to make fun of him, instead meeting his dopey smile with one of his own.</p><p>Together they wandered from room to room clinging to each other and half-hysterical with laughter, clutching elbows and wrists because letting go was (for reasons Eddie couldn’t make sense of) unimaginable. The rooms were all exactly as they had been a few days before when they’d done the last tour after the inspection but now the place was <em>theirs</em>. No real estate agent breathing down their necks. No previous owners to negotiate with. Just the two of them in a house filled with sunshine and possibility.</p><p>It didn’t escape Eddie’s notice that he was excited about this new house in a way he hadn’t been with the townhouse in Chelsea. Maybe that move-in day was tainted slightly by the little house in Jericho he’d liked more even though he let Myra talk him into settling for the townhouse. Or maybe it was because it took him twenty minutes to find a parking spot and when he did finally pull his car against the curb, he had to walk three blocks through sleety-snow to get to his front door (dreading that it would be an everyday occurrence from then on). Or maybe it was because their new neighbors, a married couple not much older than him, were fighting loudly, their voices echoing into the stairwell like a horrible omen as he padded up to the door.</p><p>It probably didn’t help that Myra had picked up the keys while he was at work so he had to knock to be let in like he was a guest at someone else’s house and in the brief moment he’d thought they might celebrate, standing together on the threshold, she said instead, ‘<em>Could you hook up the TV, I never know what to do with all those cables</em>,’ and that was the end of that.</p><p>Then again, the fluttering in his stomach as he and Richie padded around the Topanga house (<em>their </em>house), the two of them laughing and shushing each other for no apparent reason, probably had everything to do with Richie’s contagious energy, the way he hadn’t stopped smiling like a lunatic the whole time he’d signed the paperwork, the way he’d flown Eddie’s copy of the house key into his outstretched hand complete with airplane noises like an idiot, the way he’d been bouncing in his seat on the drive over.</p><p><em>Everything </em>with Richie was fun. Maybe someday Eddie would stop being surprised by that (but for Eddie, for whom having <em>fun </em>was still shocking after a very flat life, he doubted that would ever happen).</p><p>“Bev already claimed this room,” Richie said, stepping into the bedroom that had a beautiful view of the backyard even if hideous rose patterned wallpaper made the space seem a lot smaller than it was and Eddie regretted ever thinking Richie was anything but a humongous jerk.</p><p>“Why the fuck does <em>Bev</em> get first dibs?” Eddie bit back. He’d had his heart set on claiming the room as his own (it was the bedroom with the second-largest ensuite bathroom). He’d been planning the layout of his theoretical furniture in his head and already had a list of potential contractors to hire to redo the shower and sink.</p><p>“Because Bev is a gift to world, Eds,” Richie said like it was obvious, trailing back out to the hall and through the living room, approaching the master bedroom, Eddie hot and furious at his heels.</p><p>“<em>Bev </em>isn’t gonna fucking live here twenty-four seven, asshole,” Eddie snapped, irritated with the way Richie was studying the high slanted ceiling of the master bedroom.</p><p>“Why do you care what room she gets?” Richie asked, genuinely, stupidly confused.</p><p>“Uh, cause <em>I </em>wanted that bedroom.”</p><p>“Why wouldn’t you want this one?” Richie gestured with a sweeping arm to the room around them. The <em>master </em>bedroom. Eddie frowned.</p><p>“Cause it’s yours, fucknut.”</p><p>“Says who?”</p><p>“Says the fucking <em>title</em>.”</p><p>“Which I wanted you to sign,” Richie reminded him, smirking a bit.</p><p>And yeah, okay, the house was <em>technically</em> <em>Richie</em>’s, but Eddie didn’t need to co-sign the title to know it was his too. It was the same when they were kids and shared practically everything – comic books, clothes, homework, lunches. Beds, couches, the hammock, <em>space </em>in general, cramming up next to each other at every opportunity, overflowing their seats at the Aladdin to fight over the popcorn bag or grip each other during jump-scares. Fuck, they even shared <em>germs</em> (which was disgusting but slightly less so because it was Richie and Richie was gross all the time and Eddie made his peace with that as best he could a long time ago) - Eddie got the flu every time Richie caught it no matter how hard he tried to keep his distance.</p><p>Eddie had never needed <em>permission </em>to let himself into Richie’s basement and take refuge on his couch or curl up on his bed to take a nap, even if Richie was out somewhere, rehearsing for the school play or stuck in detention. Richie’s basement door was almost always unlocked and on the rare chance it wasn’t, Eddie knew where to find the hidden key under a brick on the side of the house. <em>All </em>the Losers knew about that brick and his open door policy extended to every single one of them.</p><p>It went the same the other way around, too. Richie didn’t need to ask before he slid open Eddie’s window and climbed inside, sometimes past midnight, the gentle dip of the mattress stirring Eddie awake enough to scootch over and make room for Richie under the covers. There was a long standing invitation to take what was needed and trust the other would give it. Adult Eddie could see now how special and rare that was. He didn’t even have that relationship with his <em>wife </em>who asked after his expenses anytime he filled up the tank of the Escalade. Or maybe it was a facet of youth - that sort of selfless sharing and guileless taking – but whatever it was, apparently it held out strong through their years apart.</p><p>And yes, maybe fundamentally a house was a little different than a sandwich or a couch but Richie was weirdly hung up on him feeling at home and Eddie (as his therapist gently reminded him occasionally) had <em>boundary </em>issues when it came to Richie so it wasn’t very hard to think of the house as his too even though Richie had literally laughed off his offer to pay rent in the most condescending way imaginable. The smug, wealthy asshole.</p><p>“I figured it was yours from the get-go,” Richie said with a shrug, ducking into the hideous bathroom. “Gotta get you that fancy bathroom, right Eds?” And his voice probably wasn’t as lascivious as Eddie thought it was but there was definitely a suggestive edge to the curl of his words.</p><p>“Then where the fuck are you going to sleep?” Eddie snapped, his chest feeling strangely tight. Why was Richie so <em>nice </em>to him sometimes? It did weird things to his insides.</p><p>“Figured I’d camp out on the roof like Snoopy,” Richie said sarcastically, ducking out of the bathroom and hanging off the top of the doorframe like he was trying to rub how fucking <em>huge </em>he was in Eddie’s face. Then he amended, “One of the other fucking bedrooms, Spaghetti, obviously. That one, probably.” He jerked his head towards the open door visible from the center of the master.</p><p>Eddie frowned. “Rich, that’s the smallest one in the house.”</p><p>“What can I say, I like ‘em small.” He added a saucy wink.</p><p>“I wasn’t talking about your dick.”</p><p>“<em>Ohhhhh shit</em>! Eds gets off a good one!” Richie crowed, looking entirely too happy. He looked entirely too happy a lot these days. Eddie wasn’t complaining though his stomach might be considering it immediately flopped around like a dying fish.</p><p>“Are you fucking serious?” Eddie asked after a long moment’s pause, scanning Richie head to foot, trying to figure out what the fuck was going on in that goon-brain of his.</p><p>“Yeah dude, it’s all yours,” Richie said, wandering out of the room completely blasé, pulling his duffel bag off Eddie’s shoulder (he still wasn’t cleared for heavy-lifting and even though the bag was light, Eddie wasn’t taking any risks), dropping it on the floor of the room he’d apparently claimed, and crouching to dig around inside it.</p><p>“You can’t change your mind later,” Eddie reminded him, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorframe of the room in question, voice childish even to his own ears. It really <em>was </em>the smallest bedroom in the house, barely big enough to hold Richie’s bed. It didn’t even have a closet. And the walls were covered in what was easily the worst wallpaper in the house – a busy, mostly blue number that featured thin tree trunks and branches dotted with birds.</p><p>Richie’s grin stretched all the way to his ears as he peered pointedly in the direction of the master bedroom. “Well, it’s not like I’d want the room that’s <em>haunted</em>…”</p><p>“<em>WHAT?!</em>” Eddie screeched. “<em>Haunted</em>?! Where the fuck did you hear that?”</p><p>“Didn’t the real estate agent tell you?” Richie said, an evil glint in his eyes. He did a Voice - a spooky ghost-story voice - and Eddie felt like he was twelve again and Richie was trying to scare him at a sleepover (Bill was always so much better at creating a story but Richie’s Voices gave Bill a run for his money). “The first owners died in that room, Eddie. They wallpapered over the bloodstain.”</p><p>Eddie scoffed. “The wallpaper is the only crime that’s been committed in this fucking house.” Eddie shifted his weight. “And if you don’t think I googled the fuck out of this address for <em>exactly </em>that reason and a million others, you don’t know me at all.”</p><p>Richie’s spooky façade dropped in an instant and he fell back laughing, another true Richie Tozier Guffaw keeling him over like a felled tree. “How many – oh my god, Eds – how many sex offenders are in our new neighborhood?” he panted out, laughing way too hard considering what he was asking.</p><p>“Besides you?” Eddie snapped back and Richie laughed harder, flipping his glasses up to wipe at his eyes. “Seven in a two mile radius.”</p><p>“Oh fuck,” Richie said, clearly trying to reign in his laughter, looking a little genuinely startled.</p><p>“Turns out there’s a lot of fucking sex-offenders everywhere. And no one was fucking murdered in this house, asshole, shut the fuck up.”</p><p>“You’re right,” Richie conceded, returning to digging around in his bag. “It was an old woman. She died in her sleep.”</p><p>Eddie glared at him heatedly. “You <em>better </em>be fucking with me.”</p><p>“Eddie, come on, are you really worried about <em>ghosts</em>? You know those aren’t real, right?”</p><p>“We fought an actual shapeshifting alien from space.”</p><p>“Yeah but, like, <em>aliens</em> are real.”</p><p>“You lived most your life with <em>magical retrograde amnesia</em> and you’re telling me you don’t believe in ghosts.”</p><p>Richie blinked myopically up at him.</p><p>“That’s it, I’m calling Mike, he’ll fucking talk you into believing in ghosts,” Eddie threatened.</p><p>Richie started laughing again, finally pulling out whatever the fuck he’d been looking for in his bag: two picture frames, and they must be new. Eddie hadn’t seen before; Richie didn’t <em>have </em>any personal photos framed in his old apartment just weird pop culture artwork and movie posters. Eddie scowled and followed him out to the living room where Richie lovingly set the first one down on the mantel over the fireplace.</p><p>It was a picture of the Losers, all of them pushed up next to each other at the restaurant the day they left Derry. Eddie’s eyes fondly traced Bev’s smile, Ben’s shy sweet face, and Bill who had been captured forever laughing into Mike’s shoulder. Richie had the arm not in a sling wrapped around Eddie’s neck, nearly pulling him into a headlock and Eddie remembered he’d been in the middle of lecturing him to watch his fucking back, worried to death the idiot would tear a stitch, but he was shocked to find himself beaming in the picture – maybe not with his mouth which was open, clearly mid-rant – but his face looked warm and happy in a way Eddie hadn’t seen caught on camera in… ages. Maybe not since he was a kid.</p><p>In the photo, Richie’s eyes were glued on Eddie, the left one scrunched up a little more than the right with his smirk, stupid broad shoulders encased in Eddie’s hoodie, his cheek pressed against Eddie’s hair. They looked fucking good together. All the Losers did.</p><p>The soft joy leaking into Eddie’s limbs cut itself short when Richie gently placed the second picture frame next to the first.</p><p>It was Stan. <em>Adult </em>Stan. One of the picture’s Patty had sent to Bill, taken less than a year ago on some dorky bird-outing because Stan was still exactly Stan and that was equal parts endearing and utterly heartbreaking. The green stretch of trees behind him could have been the Barrens, the binoculars around his neck were the same fucking pair his dad had gifted to him when he turned sixteen, that almost quirk to his lips <em>so fucking Stanley </em>Eddie could barely see the twenty-five years between him and that uptight kid Eddie had loved so fiercely.</p><p>Eddie had already agonized over it privately (Stan looked <em>so much </em>like the boy he remembered except better; softened out around the edges with happiness - <em>how could Stan do that to everyone</em>, how could he give himself up?) and he knew Richie had cried over it at least twice. He was tearing up again now, a fist pressed to the mantle, but he lifted his other arm easily when Eddie pressed into his side.</p><p>“He’d fucking <em>hate </em>this wallpaper,” Eddie said, referring to the heinous green leaf print on the wall above the mantle. It was so loud and aggressively busy Eddie’s brain hurt just looking at it. In fact, Stan would probably prefer the weird bird print in Richie’s room – a lead knot dropped in Eddie’s stomach; was <em>that </em>why Richie had picked that room? did it remind him of Stan? – but before Eddie could spiral, Richie let out a watery laugh and dashed at his eyes, tugging Eddie against him tight in a half hug.</p><p>“We’ve got an hour before the movers show up. Wanna go for a swim?” Richie said, and Eddie was relieved he didn’t sound as devastated as he could when Stan came up in conversation.</p><p>“I don’t have any trunks,” Eddie said, realizing he didn’t own swim trunks <em>at all</em>. Myra was convinced pools were breeding ground for disease and the ocean was even worse. Eddie hadn’t gone swimming since the quarry and back then, they’d shamelessly undress to their underwear instead of bothering with swimsuits anyways.</p><p>As if Richie could read his mind, he shrugged, “Never stopped us before,” mussing Eddie’s hair with one huge hand and grinning while he back-walked towards the sliding glass door that led to the backyard, already yanking his shirt off, his head reappearing with his glasses knocked askew.</p><p>“Your back -” Eddie reminded him, trailing after Richie despite himself.</p><p>“- is all healed up, isn’t that right Dr. K?” Richie’s butt banged into the sliding door because he wasn’t watching where he was going and he whirled, throwing it open and tossing an ‘<em>I dare you, Eddie</em>’ grin over his shoulder. And fuck, the stupid things Eddie had done because of that fucking grin.</p><p>The pool, thankfully, didn’t look too clogged up with leaves or dead bugs – the previous owners had been taking care of it through the buying process <em>thank fuck</em> – so it mostly passed Eddie’s quick visual scan. Which was good because Richie had already kicked off his shoes and peeled off his socks, wrestling himself out of his jeans to reveal the same pizza-patterned boxer briefs he’d slept in last night.</p><p>“You’re fucking crazy dude. We don’t have any towels. You really want to be drenched when the movers show up?”</p><p>Richie grinned like a maniac. “What, are you fucking <em>shy</em>?”</p><p>It was pathetic how quick Eddie yanked his t-shirt over his head at Richie’s goading tone, a Pavlovian response to the implied challenge, trying to express with just his eyes how fucking stupid he thought Richie was while he toed off his shoes and unbuckled his belt.</p><p>He expected Richie to make fun of him. That was about 90% of their relationship after all and Richie had never pulled his punches when he was a kid, ridiculing everything from the pale color of Eddie’s I’m-not-allowed-outdoors-very-often skin to the slightly too small pucker of his nipples.</p><p>And it wasn’t like he’d been <em>trying </em>to hide his chest from Richie (who was broad and wide and stupidly hairy) but Eddie had nearly ten years of living with Myra to practice how not to be seen since she fretted about every freckle and ingrown hair. He’d mastered the art of changing in the bathroom after a shower or a piss, getting dressed and <em>staying </em>dressed all day even though Richie would change into sweats the moment he got home if he didn’t have immediate future plans and seemingly lived with a personal vendetta against pants.</p><p>But Richie openly being a dick about his body was easy to handle, a lifetime with him had trained Eddie to swear at Richie, curse him out, bite back just as many insults or more. So Eddie kicked off his pants and tilted his head up to seethe at Richie.</p><p>Richie’s mouth opened but when words didn’t immediately start pouring out, Eddie snapped, “What?” preparing himself for a roasting.</p><p>Something in Richie’s throat clicked. “<em>What the fuck</em>,” Richie said, loud and almost angry.</p><p>“<em>What</em>, asshole?”</p><p>But Richie was already covering his face, fingers shoved up under his glasses to rub at his eyes. “How the <em>fuck </em>do you look like that?”</p><p>“Like <em>what</em>?” Eddie said, matching his loud, angry tone.</p><p>“Like a fucking – how the fuck did <em>all </em>of you get so fucking <em>hot</em>?” And that was <em>so </em>far from what Eddie had been expecting, the string of insults he’d been cueing up in his brain ground to a halt. “How come <em>I’m </em>the only one who doesn’t have fucking abs?”</p><p>“I don’t have <em>abs</em>, you asshole,” Eddie said, looking down his own body. Pale and mostly hairless and slender. Almost the exact opposite of Richie (who at least was thankfully similarly pale though his chest hair disguised that better). Eddie went to the gym, mostly sticking to biking, walking, and weights to keep from aggravating his apparently made up asthma, but he wasn’t <em>strong looking </em>like Richie was, even if Richie’s stomach had a softness that spurred the childish impulse to poke and grope and hug. But what felt like a lifetime of regimented meals and pedaling on a stationary bike to try to flee his own thoughts had kept Eddie trim.</p><p>He didn’t (and never could) look fucking <em>manly </em>like Richie did, the giant annoying Sasquatch. Eddie didn’t have those fucking <em>collar bones </em>that winged out for miles. He didn’t have legs that shot him into fucking space.</p><p>“Then what the fuck are those?!” Richie yelled, jabbing a finger at Eddie’s stomach, right above the waistband of his black, moisture-wicking briefs.</p><p>“Normal human muscles?!” Eddie yelled right back.</p><p>“You’re so fucking – <em>uuuuuugh</em>!” Richie groaned, and before Eddie could demand he define ‘<em>uuuuuugh</em>,’ Richie looped an arm around his waist, lifted him off his feet (no doubt aggravating his shoulder, the fucking idiot), and tossed him into the pool.</p><p>Eddie resurfaced spluttering, gasping more when Richie canon-balled into the water right next to him, another wave of water dousing him in a splash. The string of swears he blurted out when Richie’s wet head resurfaced was intermingled with laughter he couldn’t strangle, the sense memory so jarring Eddie flashed into a different scene nearly thirty years ago.</p><p>The quarry had been a Loser haunt for as long as Eddie could remember. Derry had a public pool but Eddie’s mother forbade him from swimming in it and enough of her crotchety old friends from book club frequented the place so it was firmly off limits. Richie and Bill and Stan didn’t particularly like the pool either – the older kids had free run of it and, with Richie’s mouth and Bill’s stutter and Stan’s Jewishness - they had always been easy targets for bullying. No one relished the idea of getting their swim trunks torn down their legs in front of half the fucking town so they didn’t invite Bowers or his cronies to try it out by being half-dressed in their presence.</p><p>The quarry, on the other hand, felt like <em>theirs</em>. It was fucking disgusting (adult Eddie hated imagining what sort of filth and grey-water they’d been spitting out of their mouths) but the faint green smell of the water tended to drift into the peripherals of his attention when their raised voices echoed around their own private lake.</p><p>The first time they swam in the water (the four of them, before Bev and Ben and Mike), Eddie needed to be talked into the lake. Richie’s relentless goading shuffled him in knee deep but it was Stan’s quiet shrug – Stan who liked to be clean and tidy and still dunked his head under, his tight curls straightening out with the weight of the water – that convinced him more than anything he probably wasn’t going to die of some stagnant water-born illness.</p><p>The three of them taught him how to swim. His mother, for all her paranoia, never worried enough about him drowning to teach him herself or get him lessons, maybe hoping her frequent rants would scare him away from big bodies of water forever. But by the time they found the quarry, he had mastered the art of mentally contorting himself into breaking her rules.</p><p>(Learning to swim would be <em>good </em>for him. What if there was a flash flood? What if he fell into the Kenduskeag when it was bloated with winter run-off? What if Richie smiled at him in that secretive don’t-you-love-breaking-the-rules kind of way that lit something in Eddie on fire and he stupidly threw himself out into open air before hitting the quarry water with a splash?)</p><p>All of those were good reasons to get in the water and flail around until he learned how not to drown.</p><p>Even after Eddie had mastered the doggy paddle and breaststroke and how to float on his back to a degree that he wasn’t likely to sink under the surface and die, Eddie clung to his taller friends’ backs anytime they strayed into water too deep for his toes to reach the silty-bottom, treading water a tiring and boring task.</p><p>Bill would happily accept Eddie’s weight on his back, looping his arms around his knees and holding him up, towing him around languidly in a way that really let Eddie play out his fantasies about being Bill’s treasured younger brother. Stan would good-naturedly bitch at him about squeezing his neck too tight but stand still and steady, a stable rock for Eddie to cling to.</p><p>And Richie, predictably, would turn the contact into a wrestling match, grab Eddie around the middle and dunk them both under water, force Eddie onto his shoulders and dare him to stand up and jump off, tuck his linked fingers under Eddie’s feet and try to fling him as high into the air as his string-bean arms could manage, spin him around in dizzying circles, the water rippling around them and shout ‘<em>washing machine, washing machine</em>!’ like the loud-mouthed idiot he was.</p><p>Eddie liked holding onto Richie best.</p><p>If Eddie concentrated, he could still feel the boney cold sinew of Richie’s skinny noodle arms under his fingers, could still taste the nasty green water he accidentally licked off Richie’s shoulder when he pressed an open-mouth laugh against his spine, still hear the spluttering guffaws of Richie’s laughter after he resurfaced from one of Eddie’s dunks.</p><p>Richie was his <em>favorite</em>. He was the least likely to lay out to get some sun when Eddie was always bursting with energy and desperate for someone to play with. He never worried if his hair was lying flat in a misguided bid to impress Bev once she started joining them at the quarry in the summers. He never pulled out a fucking <em>book</em>. He’d swim laps and roughhouse and make bad jokes until they clamored to the shore in a panting heap, passing out in the warmth of summer and waking up with weird tan lines where their limbs had inter-tangled.</p><p>None of that had changed, apparently. The first few minutes were spent grappling, trying to drown each other, fighting to see who was stronger, an endless battle where they both alternated between being the dunker and the dunkee. Eddie was glad the nearest neighbor was on the other side of the street, their backyard tucked up against the mountain, or else the sounds of their shouting and laughter would probably draw a concerned crowd.</p><p>Richie’s bare wet skin was slippery and smooth under Eddie’s fingers except where hair made him coarse - not exactly a surprise to Eddie who had spent weeks in Richie’s shamelessly undressed presence, washing Richie’s wound as it healed. But having an excuse to <em>feel </em>all that skin was a strange luxury.</p><p>It was a glimpse of the clean line right where Richie’s arm met his back – the incision the doctor’s had made to insert the metal pin into Richie’s shoulder – that had Eddie flailing away when Richie swam between his legs and started to stand up, obviously intending to try to lift him up onto his shoulders.</p><p>“Your back, fuckwad!” Eddie cried, dodging Richie’s grabby hands. He’d abandoned his glasses at the side of the pool after the second time they had to dive for them so Richie squinted at him, shaking his head like a dog, his hair slicking weirdly to the side.</p><p>“Oh right,” Richie said like he forgot. He <em>frequently </em>seemed to forget he was very nearly impaled, something Eddie wished <em>he </em>could forget too, his shaking hands covered in Richie’s blood a common feature of Eddie’s worse dreams, ones even worse than the nightmares starring the leper or the clown or his mother.</p><p>In the half-second stupor that won him, Eddie smirked, diving under the water and slotting himself between Richie’s legs.</p><p>Most of their childhoods, their height and weight difference was so exaggerated Richie could easily manhandle Eddie even on dry ground. There was a period after Richie’s first growth spurt (the one that put them more than a foot apart height-wise) where Richie practically refused to put Eddie down. He’d pick him up like a football under his arm despite Eddie’s screaming and wiggling. He’d come up behind Eddie and wrap his arms around his chest in a bear hug, lifting him off the ground until his feet dangled. One time he carried Eddie all the way home from the Barrens on his back because Eddie had scraped his knees open on a rock and every step ached.</p><p>But the best thing about being in the water was how it robbed Richie of his advantageous strength. Once Eddie knew how to swim (and so long as they kept to shallow enough waters that his feet could touch the ground) Eddie could heft <em>Richie </em>onto his back, spindly arms and legs wrapped around his middle.</p><p>And that’s what Eddie did, surfacing with Richie’s knees clamped in his hands, Richie’s arms automatically wrapping around his shoulders, the sound of his laughter bright and close to Eddie’s ear.</p><p>“Bet I could get you on my shoulders,” Eddie said, feeling bold and alive all the places Richie’s skin touched his.</p><p>“Now you’re just showing off,” Richie laughed, already starting to climb up Eddie’s back in a flurry of oversized limbs. “I’ve got, like, fifty pounds on you, dude.” But he didn’t call Eddie weak or fragile or argue he’d get hurt. And for some reason Richie’s confidence in him <em>did things </em>to Eddie stomach and his heart and inappropriately, his dick.</p><p>Richie got heavier as his body left the water, his true weight slowly settling as Eddie shifted his footing to brace himself better. It was challenging (more because Richie was a huge, ungainly idiot with no sense of balance than because he was unbearably heavy) but eventually his thighs were wrapped around Eddie’s neck (and wow, those were <em>thick </em>fucking thighs, jesus), his feet tucked around Eddie’s side, his toes digging into the middle of Eddie’s back for balance.</p><p>“<em>Holy shit</em>,” Richie breathed once he was up there, Eddie’s arms looped around his knees, his hands spread over Richie’s hairy thighs, his fingers feeling out the corded muscles below skin. “<em>Jesus Eddie</em>, you’re fucking strong.” And the child in Eddie that always <em>desperately </em>wanted to impress Richie preened. “You know, for all the times I had you up here, I never realized how much your dick was just <em>mashing </em>into the back of my head.”</p><p>Eddie squawked and tipped Richie back over, untangling from him underwater and shoving him with hands and feet until Richie grabbed an ankle and tugged him down too.</p><p>The moving truck pulled up while Eddie was still trying to murder Richie (who didn’t have the good grace to stop laughing and drown, the complete asshole). Richie pulled himself out of the pool (showing off his stupidly thick arms), shoved his glasses back on, used his fucking t-shirt to perfunctorily dry off and tugged his jeans back on over his wet underwear, dashing over barefoot to meet the movers at the front door.</p><p>Eddie used Richie’s shirt to dry off too since he’d left it behind, wiping his face off on the damp fabric and catching a nose-full of Richie’s deodorant and cologne, a smell hardwired in Eddie’s brain now thanks to sleeping next to him for more than a month.</p><p>When Eddie wandered back into the house through the back door, it was to find Richie shirtlessly directing the handful of movers to drop the bedroom furniture into the small room he’d picked out. And really, the asshole had no right to look so good with nothing on but jeans and wet underwear, his hair darker than ever and falling over his forehead in thick clumps, his glasses still water-splattered. He was doing a terrible job directing the movers, mostly cracking jokes literally no one was interested in hearing, so Eddie took over, directing the kitchen boxes into the kitchen and watching his own sparse luggage be towed into the master bedroom.</p><p>The whole truck was unloaded in less than an hour and then Eddie and Richie were sitting at the stolen café table (Richie had made a good argument for keeping it so it could sit poolside) in the space clearly intended for a much larger table.</p><p>They ordered pizza from a new place (they definitely didn’t fall into the delivery sphere of the pizzeria they’d been frequenting at Richie’s apartment anymore) and Eddie opened up a new spreadsheet, this one listing all the things they’d need to buy to furnish an entire house while Richie unpacked the boxes marked ‘<em>Kitchen</em>’. It was one of many spreadsheets in a series, all new home related, pairing well with the one listing his renovation plans that broke down the house into rooms and what they needed to do in each one, most of which started with ‘<em>remove hideous fucking wallpaper</em>.’</p><p>Looking at it all typed out, Eddie felt a familiar stab of panic.</p><p>“This is a lot,” he admitted, suddenly griped with worry that they should have gone with the house in Northridge with politely beige walls but no privacy or the place in Van Nuys that definitely used to belong to a drug dealer but had recently redone wooden floors.</p><p>“What’s a lot?” Richie asked, standing in front of the cupboards, all the doors pulled open, seemingly trying to decide which was best suited to house the two frying pans and single pot he’d ‘stored’ on top of the stove at his matchbox apartment. He’d never bothered to put on his shirt even though the sky had dipped and the air drifting in through the screen door had the faintest nip of California fall.</p><p>“This,” Eddie said a little blankly, looking around him at the big empty dining area that opened up into the big empty living room that led into a half-dozen big empty rooms. Something must have given away his panic because Richie glanced up and immediately stiffened which wasn’t reassuring <em>at all</em>. “Nuh uh, you don’t get to freak out, <em>I’m</em> freaking out,” Eddie demanded, his breath catching in his throat. “I moved across the <em>country</em> and am getting a fucking <em>divorce</em> and I talked you into buying a house – one that’s fucking <em>swathed </em>with hideous wallpaper and do you know how hard it is to remove wallpaper? How much of a bitch that shit is? It’s gonna take us <em>days </em>Richie. And we have to buy a fucking couch and a kitchen table so we have someplace to fucking <em>sit </em>and I <em>still </em>don’t have a bed and I don’t know why I –”</p><p>“Hey,” Richie said, plopping himself down into the seat next to Eddie and laying one huge hand on Eddie’s shoulder – not reigning him in or trying to crush him into a more tolerable shape, just resting it there, the warmth of Richie’s palm seeping into Eddie’s bunched muscles. “You didn’t talk me into buying a house, remember? This was my idea.”</p><p>Eddie gasped in two sharp breaths, trying not to hyperventilate. “You’re sure?”</p><p>Richie’s smile eased some of the strain on his lungs. “Totally sure, weirdo. And I’ve taken down wallpaper before but if it stresses you out, I can hire someone to do it for us. It might be kinda fun though. It’s been a while since I’ve done something with my hands.”</p><p>“That isn’t jerking off, you mean?” Eddie asked tightly, eyes glued on Richie’s mouth when he laughed, swallowing a good deal of the dread that had lodged itself in his throat. “It’s for sure going to strain your shoulder.”</p><p>Richie shrugged. “Then we’ll do one room at a time and I’ll stop if it starts to hurt. We have all the time in the world, Eds. No rush.”</p><p>Eddie sucked in a deep breath, feeling the oxygen seep into his blood and flush to every limb.</p><p>“And buying furniture will be fun! You’re gonna hate the stuff I like and you can scream at me about it in public. Maybe we’ll make the tabloids again.” He put on his newscaster Voice. “‘<em>Gay comedy genius Richie Tozier and his feral badger friend Eddie Kaspbrak dragged out of Ikea by Burbank PD</em>.’ Steve’ll be thrilled.”</p><p>“<em>Feral badger</em>? Fuck you! And we aren’t buying our furniture from Ikea, are you a fucking college student?”</p><p>The way Richie grinned made Eddie think he’d been hoping for that response. “Aww but it’s so Nordic.”</p><p>“It’s <em>cheap</em>. Why do you think your bedframe broke when the movers tried to pick it up?” Richie opened his mouth and Eddie rushed to talk over him, “Don’t you dare fucking say it’s cause you humped the thing to death because you told me <em>yourself </em>you don’t bring people home.”</p><p>Richie covered his face, laughing and repeating “<em>Humped the thing to death</em>,” like it was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. Eddie’s chest didn’t hurt at all anymore and he shifted in his seat until his knee was pressed against Richie’s. Almost as an afterthought, Richie’s hand smoothed over Eddie’s shoulder, his thumb digging into the tendon of his neck, the pressure soothing in the extreme.</p><p>Richie repeated the motion with a little more pressure and inadvertently, Eddie made some kind of horrible strangled noise that he refused to call a moan. Richie froze – actually they <em>both </em>froze – and there was one prolonged moment of awful, embarrassing eye contact before Richie grinned, kicking his chair back and circling behind Eddie’s back.</p><p>“Okay, Spagheds,” Richie laughed and Eddie might have gotten mad about the moniker if Richie wasn’t already smoothing his fingers along Eddie’s shoulders. “I thought your shoulders were rock-hard with muscle but <em>apparently </em>that’s just a lifetime of stress, huh?”</p><p>“Can’t it be both?” Eddie grumbled, sighing (definitely sighing, not a fucking moan in sight around here) when Richie applied pressure, Eddie sagging under the touch.</p><p>When was the last time he’d been touched like that? Never? His mother had pet his head a lot when he was a child but that hadn’t felt nearly so nice. He went to a chiropractor once ten years ago when he had a persistent crick in his neck but those touches had been followed by harsh pulls and tugs and a lot of disconcerting cracking. And Myra and him just didn’t have the kind of relationship that harbored massages.</p><p>What Richie was doing was… tender. And it fucking felt <em>amazing</em>. What the fuck.</p><p>“Wait, better idea!” Richie stopped abruptly and Eddie was just about ready to grab him by the belt loops and haul him back but Richie was already off, circling the small pile of boxes in the living room on a mission. “Where’s bathroom stuff?” he shouted, from a distant hallway.</p><p>“Try the bathroom,” Eddie answered, rolling his eyes. Damn. That brief massage was maybe the best Eddie had felt in ages. Fucking Richie cutting it short.</p><p>When Richie padded back, he was holding two of his threadbare towels up victoriously. “Hot tub!” he crowed and Eddie blinked once before shoving back from the table and closing his laptop.</p><p>He didn’t need convincing this time, both of them stripping down to their underwear and then scouring the area around the hot tub by the light of their phones for the controls, fighting over which button probably did what before the water bubbled with lights and jets and Richie dramatically ‘<em>ooooohhhh</em>’ed like he was looking at the fucking Bellagio light show instead of a modestly bubbling hot tub.</p><p>Eddie slid in immediately, less embarrassed about groaning at the warmth of the water than when he was moaning about Richie’s hands on him, immediately zeroing in on a jet and planting his ass right in front of it so the water pressure beat deliciously against his lower back.</p><p>He closed his eyes for a second (just a <em>second</em>, settled onto the bench seat and head tilted back in bliss) but when he blinked them open, one of Richie’s long-ass legs was brushing up against his right arm. “Scoot up,” Richie commanded and Eddie very nearly snapped into combative mode except Richie’s other leg slid down next to Eddie’s other arms and two warm hands landed back on his shoulders.</p><p>Oh. <em>Oh</em>.</p><p>Richie’s stupid big hands cupped some of the warm water, letting it slide over Eddie’s shoulders before he resumed his massage, thumbs gentle at first as they kneaded into Eddie’s corded muscles but growing firmer with every swipe.</p><p>“<em>Holy fuck</em>,” Eddie breathed, his eyes honest to fucking god rolling back into his head. Cradled in the warmth of Richie’s legs, a jet positioned just right to get his lower back, the water hot and soothing, Eddie was pretty sure he’d never felt so good in his entire fucking life.</p><p>“A little more relaxed?” Richie asked, huffing out a soft laugh, Eddie sagging harder into his hands.</p><p>“Fuck off, asshole,” Eddie breathed. Maybe almost panted. Wow. Was this why people got massages despite the crippling horror of making so much physical contact with a stranger? Was Richie weirdly good at this or was this just one of the millions of things other people did with each other that Eddie had no fucking idea about? Whatever the deal was, Eddie hoped it never ended.</p><p>“There he is,” Richie chuckled, collecting more water to drip over Eddie’s shoulders. Eddie was faintly horrified that his nipples hardened at the feather-light touch of it, the flash of heat before the cool breeze, the <em>intimacy</em> of Richie’s hands moving over him with obvious care and devotion. “Your brain was overheating, Eds.”</p><p>“And putting me in hot water was your brilliant solution?” Eddie asked, his voice way breathier than it should be but wow, Richie had zeroed in on something along his right shoulder blade that both hated and loved being touched with equal ferocity.</p><p>His dick abruptly stirred, thickening under the rushing water. Eddie blinked, shocked at how quickly he had gone from the edge of a panic attack to faintly <em>aroused</em>, the anomaly never having occurred before. And maybe that was slightly shitty of Eddie but Richie’s hands on his bare skin felt <em>good </em>and his cock wasn’t listening to his half-assed mental request to calm the fuck down so there wasn’t much he could do about that really except enjoy it, right?</p><p>“Oh holy fuck, right there.”</p><p>Richie complied wordlessly, strong fingers kneading Eddie’s muscles into submission.</p><p>“Why are you good at this?” Eddie wondered out loud, trying to distract himself from the blood rushing to his crotch by thinking about what little he knew about Richie’s relationships in the years between Derry. It did help a little, imagining Sandy Herrera (or a number of faceless men and women) on the receiving end of Richie’s touch, his dick threatening to wilt with the spiral of anxiety that clenched his stomach tight. “You give your hook-ups rub downs before you kick ‘em out of your hotel room?”</p><p>“<em>No</em>,” Richie said, a comical tone to his voice. “I lived with Dear Sister Caroline for half a year – most of which she spent knocked up – and when a woman swollen with child demands you rub her fucking shoulders, you do it and try like hell to make it good.”</p><p>Eddie laughed despite himself. “How old were you?”</p><p>“Twenty? No, I was still in Chicago so nineteen.”</p><p>Eddie laughed harder. He knew what Richie looked like when he was eighteen and nineteen couldn’t be much different – all gawky elbows and stick thin with hair too fucking long and the occasional zit still spotting his jawline. The mental image of that kid crammed up behind an irritable pregnant woman and fumbling his way through a massage was hysterical.</p><p>“God, you were a dorky kid,” Eddie huffed, leaning harder into Richie’s hands, his earlier fears utterly melting away. They had their own private <em>hot tub </em>where, apparently, Richie was willing to let himself be talked into giving back rubs. Even if the house burned to the fucking ground, Eddie would consider camping out at the outdoor fireplace for the rest of his life so long as Richie kept doing whatever the fuck he was doing to make Eddie’s muscles feel less like steel and more like functioning parts of a human body.</p><p>“Says the boy who wore a fanny pack.”</p><p>Eddie hummed deeply, too amazed by the sparks of pleasure shooting straight into his brain (and subsequently, his dick) when Richie’s fingers drifted up to his neck, rubbing at the base of his skull.</p><p>“Feeling a little better?” Richie asked gently after a few moments of peaceful silence. Eddie ‘<em>hmmm</em>’ed again and Richie laughed, smoothing his hands along Eddie’s skin in a few broad strokes before he patted Eddie’s shoulder twice, kicking his (still stupidly long) leg over Eddie’s head and sinking into the water next to him. Eddie collapsed against the edge of the hot tub, resting his head on the ledge and staring blankly at the sky that had darkened from grey to black at some point while his eyes had been closed.</p><p>Eddie felt like melted butter and Eddie wasn’t a melted butter type of guy. Eddie was a coiled rubber band man, tense and ready to snap. He tilted his head, taking in Richie’s incredibly fond smile before he dropped his steamy glasses at the edge of the tub and mirrored Eddie’s positon.</p><p>Once Richie was settled in, both of them staring up at the dark sky, Eddie thought his dick might lose interest. Instead, the whole side of his body closest to Richie was alive with electricity. Eddie did his best to ignore it.</p><p>“We should put some string lights out here,” Richie said comfortably, like he <em>hadn’t </em>just literally squeezed months of built up pressure out of Eddie for nothing in return.</p><p>Finally unable to hold it in any longer, Eddie blurted, “Sorry I panicked.”</p><p>Richie patted his leg underneath the water, his hand on Eddie’s bare thigh a surprise. Thankfully he didn’t jump, that would probably really kill the mood, and it wasn’t like Richie’s hand was unwelcome, his cock stupidly throbbing in interest. Eddie was already three steps ahead of the night, imagining typing ‘<em>back rub</em>’ into pornhub gay and seeing what kind of results he got before he hopped in the shower.</p><p>“No worries, Spaghetti,” Richie answered, drawing his hand back. Eddie was kind of pissed Richie hadn’t left it there on his thigh. “We’re making lots of big changes. A little panic every now and then is probably normal.”</p><p>“I don’t <em>regret </em>any of it,” Eddie said, the thought much easier to announce when he wasn’t looking at Richie’s face. And he <em>didn’t </em>regret anything. He <em>couldn’t</em>. Even Richie’s solution to Eddie’s panic attack had been better than any other mundane moment in Eddie’s previous life – the one where he never ate pizza or swam in pools or let anyone touch him for longer than a handshake or a mandatory hug. The one where his dick stayed firmly uninterested in almost everything and his skin never lit up like a circuit board.</p><p>The long, careful breath Richie sighed out next to him was worrying. “Okay, good,” Richie said, voice a little shaky.</p><p>“Really, Rich,” Eddie said, turning his head and grabbing onto Richie’s forearm. Richie’s gaze stayed locked on the smattering of stars bright enough to be out so early. “I don’t. I’m having such a good time it’s unbelievable. Sometimes it all just hits me, you know? Two months ago I thought it was normal to be miserable and sometimes my brain thinks that’s safer because it knows how to handle that. I didn’t get to decide what I ate for fucking dinner let alone what house I wanted to live in or what color the living room should be.”</p><p>Richie turned to him, his face unbearably somber.</p><p>“I’m gonna drive you crazy,” Eddie admitted, a strange thought to say to <em>Richie</em>, one he’d never had when he was a kid even though he’d known then, too, that sometimes Richie got annoyed with him, the way they <em>all </em>annoyed each other on occasion. Back then, that had felt like a normal aspect of knowing someone, of <em>loving </em>someone, seeing their faults and still wanting to be with them anyways.</p><p>So this was a new fear, one bred from years of being high-maintenance and not being worth the work. “Seriously, this is only the first of <em>many </em>probable freak outs. And my therapist and I are still working out whether I should even <em>be </em>on medication with the whole complicated history of that so it isn’t like I can pop a pill and bliss the fuck out. I’m gonna be high strung. And you’re gonna hate me for it.”</p><p>“You’re really worried about that,” Richie said but it wasn’t a question so Eddie didn’t feel like he had to answer. Reacting to the silence, Richie sat up and turned Eddie fully towards himself, both of his huge hands cupping Eddie’s shoulders, eyes extra intense without his thick glasses distorting them. “Okay, Spaghetti, open up them massive peepers and read my lips. I, Richard Wentworth Tozier, like you so much it’s stupid. I could no sooner hate you than I could watch <em>Airplane </em>without laughing or <em>Schindler’s List</em> without crying. Even if you freak out twice a day, every day, I will tell you stupid jokes and rub your tense-as-fuck shoulders until you calm down and count myself lucky for the fucking honor of it. In an ideal world, I’d spend the rest of my life being bossed around by <em>you</em>, Edward Spaghedward Kaspbrak, you traumatized little lunatic. Do you understand?”</p><p>Eddie was pretty sure he’d been in the hot tub too long, his entire body spiking with heat like a solar flare, the rush of blood to his face leaving him dizzy. Richie was probably feeling a similar effect, his face fully red even in the dim lights slanting across the lawn from the kitchen. They should be careful about that sort of thing, if they both passed out from heatstroke they’d drown and Bill would find their bodies when he came over tomorrow to get the grand tour.</p><p>“Eds,” Richie repeated himself. “Do you understand?”</p><p>And some insane part of his brain (likely heavily influenced by his still half-stiff dick) locked onto Richie’s mouth – his stupid overbite and his wry smile and his thin lips that were <em>very </em>pink - and abruptly asked, ‘<em>What would it be like to kiss Richie on the mouth</em>?’</p><p>‘<em>Fuck off</em>,’ the logical part of his brain immediately answered, half laughing and in shock.</p><p>“Yeah, Richie,” Eddie said, a little dazed. “I think I get it.”</p><p>‘<em>Kissing Richie would probably be good</em>,’ the first part of his brain (or his dick, more likely) inserted into Eddie’s consciousness. ‘<em>Probably </em>really <em>good</em>.’</p><p><em>What</em> (and Eddie could not emphasize this enough)<em> the actual fuck</em>?</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>They're officially moved in!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter Fourteen</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I know some peeps get real sad when Stan is mentioned so as a warning, there's a lot of mentions of Stan in this chapter. Prepare your hearts.</p><p>TW: mentions of substance abuse, alcohol consumption, Sonia's control issues™, mentions of anti-semistism, underage drinking, and a teenage boy from the 90's deep confusion about AIDS</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Richie had heard the expression ‘domestic bliss’ a lot in his life. His parents’ friends liked to throw it around at the gross adult parties the Tozier household hosted a few times a year - Maggie and Went all over each other like teenagers, still so in love even though they spent all day in the same office and all night under the same roof, totally unembarrassed that they couldn’t get enough of each other.</p><p>Come to think of it, maybe it was seeing the two of them eye-fuck each other all the way until their dying days that made Richie such a disgusting romantic, his parents a shining example that Love Did Exist, a message not many other of the Losers got from their home lives.</p><p>It was probably all those kisses over pancakes and stifled laughter coming from their bedroom late at night and the soft looks they cut each other across his dad’s office that made Richie <em>yearn</em> so fucking bad, even when he was a teenager and he probably could’ve at least scored a pity lay from one of the theater club girls except that his stupid fucking heart wanted Eddie and his stupid fucking dick didn’t really want to settle for anyone else either even though it was happy enough cramming itself into a tupperware filled with microwaved, leftover mashed potatoes. The fucking hypocrite.</p><p>But even Teenage Richie who lusted after fame and freedom and a glamorous life (almost as much as he lusted after Eddie) would have blushed to the roots of his unconditioned hair if he could see the way Richie was living now: With Eddie. In a big but relatively understated house they called <em>theirs. </em>Where Eddie woke up early and swam laps in the pool, his hair dripping onto the kitchen counter while he drank whatever coffee Richie had brewed, laying a friendly hand on Richie’s hip as he slid past him to get the fridge.</p><p>It was all so beautiful Richie wasn’t entirely convinced he hadn’t died and inexplicably found himself in heaven.</p><p>The two of them started on Eddie’s long list of renovations and suddenly getting bossed around by Eddie became another stupidly wonderful facet of his everyday life. And maybe that was a little codependent – enjoying so much waking up and knowing Eddie would have the day planned – but doing whatever chore or task Eddie requested had the double benefit of keeping Richie busy and making Eddie happy. And considering that, left to his own devices, Richie might have taken up day-drinking or moping or thinking too hard about the events he saw in the Deadlights, he figured scrubbing the house from top to bottom or calling up landscapers and getting quotes on weekly upkeep was the better option, especially since, if Richie got distracted by a book he’d forgotten about or somehow wound up lying on the floor and listening to music, Eddie would come find him, purse his lips in obviously fake-disappointment-that-might-actually-be-endearment, and then demand attention which Richie was always happy to give.</p><p>They hired a contractor to completely redo Eddie’s bathroom and, after a three-day long argument that resolved itself (at Bill’s suggestion) in a winner-take-all Smash Bros. tournament, Richie footed the bill, flat out refusing Eddie’s sore-loser suggestion of going dutch. Richie claimed it was because Eddie was paying lawyer’s fees out the ass but it was selfishly - and probably despicably - a way to insert himself into Eddie’s weird bathroom-related kink, a fact he would be keeping to himself until the end of time.</p><p>The side bonus of the competition was that Eddie, incandescently angry at Richie for beating his Link with the non-descript Wii-Fit girl, was pissed enough that he had no hang-ups when it came to picking out an insanely huge bathtub or weirdly expensive tiles and Richie was desperately fixated on spoiling Eddie who, it seemed, had been living his life without letting himself enjoy anything.</p><p>They started peeling down wallpaper which <em>was </em>a bitch and a half but it also meant hanging out for hours with Eddie and trying out the new jokes Richie had tentatively been working on and wearing himself out so bad that the Deadlight nightmares only hit him every-other night. Which was good. Because Eddie had gotten his own bed - Richie talked him into buying a king, way too fucking in love when he watched the little guy scramble into the middle of it and look at Richie from across continents of space - and sleeping alone for the first time since Derry was… an adjustment. One aided largely by the thought that Eddie was only a wall away and the fact that Richie always pulled up his camera roll on his cellphone last thing before he drifted off in case he needed to reassure himself that everything was <em>real </em>when he woke up with the aftertaste of Eddie’s blood still clinging to his teeth.</p><p>Photos were an easy reminder that most of his friends were alive and well and finally getting the lives they deserved. Short of standing next to Eddie’s bed and staring at him like a fucking creep (for the record, Richie hadn’t sunk to that level and he was maybe a little grossly proud of himself because it was <em>very </em>tempting, especially since he had a feeling Eddie would <em>absolutely </em>invite him to crawl in next to him if he were discovered), it was the best he could do when 3am was fucking who-knew what time in Corsica or Florida and it was <em>3am in Malibu</em> so a call to one of the other Losers might not be terribly appreciated.</p><p>Besides, existing in a constant state of exhaustion wasn’t new territory for Richie – between his late-night oriented career and various substance addictions he’d never maintained a regular sleep schedule anyways so why would he start now?</p><p>Richie managed (after a multi-day debate that had promptly become one of Richie’s favorite memories ever) to talk Eddie into leaving one wall in the living room papered with the truly psychedelic leaf print Eddie had commented on the first day – partially because Eddie’s temple vein throbbed every time he looked at it that first week and partially because Richie kinda actually loved it for its garishness which was a surprise to absolutely no one. Eventually Eddie decorated the room around the color scheme on the wall and when they sank onto the couch Richie had eye-balled but not mentioned because he didn’t want to step on Eddie’s decorator toes (a mustard yellow number with cushions so deep it was like sinking into a pillow - Eddie must have secretly added it to their order without Richie noticing because one morning he came out to find it sitting in his living room, one of Eddie’s perfect fucking eyebrows raised in self-satisfaction) they both agreed the wall paper tied the room together, Eddie looking smug as fuck and so quietly proud of himself Richie wanted to eat him up with a spoon.</p><p>Then, because Eddie easily ranked in the top ten list of highest-strung people in the western hemisphere, he agonized over what to hang above the mantle, asking Richie his opinion on endless paintings and photographs and wall art. Richie, who would never tire of talking to Eddie about even the most mundane shit after so painfully long apart, genuinely enjoyed almost all of Eddie’s offerings and was more than willing to discuss the merits of hanging a still life in their living room vs. a macramé tapestry or whatever weird thing Eddie had hinged on that particular day of the week but the wall remained conspicuously empty. Not that Richie cared one way or the other. Eddie’s indecisiveness wasn’t a panic-level event yet and letting Eddie work things out on his own was sometimes the best thing he could do (or so Richie’s therapist insisted when Richie confessed he wasn’t sure if the whole ordeal was something he needed to be worried about).</p><p>They got a big table for the kitchen and string lights for the yard and a hammock Richie hung under the pergola in the yard. Technically <em>Eddie </em>hung it up when he wandered out when he came home from work to see what Richie was doing – Richie had been trying to make it a surprise – but Richie couldn’t figure out the hardware and being tool-illiterate was worth it when Eddie got all superior and flexed the same weird muscle that had him changing the Mustang’s oil in their garage and Richie really wasn’t gonna complain about Eddie looking sure and confident and making fun of Richie for being useless, turning pink when Richie not-entirely-condescendingly ‘<em>oooh</em>’ed and ‘<em>ahhh</em>’ed at how fucking <em>competent </em>Eddie was.</p><p>Plus, having Eddie there at the christening of the hammock meant that they <em>immediately </em>fought over who got to lay in it first which meant they <em>both </em>wound up sprawled in it and all Richie’s hammock related fantasies (except the pornographic ones, unfortunately) became a reality right away and the damn thing paid for itself in sexual frustration/gratification – a strange mix of feelings but one that Richie was more than acclimated to the taste of by now.</p><p>Bill, as the first Loser to set foot in the Tozier-Kaspbrak Estate, got second dibs on which room he wanted to claim as his own. He helped pick out the furniture in there, too – largely because he came along on two of their furniture buying trips. Richie assumed half of that was Bill using any excuse possible to avoid Audra and half because they all <em>really </em>couldn’t get enough of each other. Even wandering around showrooms and listening to Eddie fight with salespeople was extremely fun when they were together and could grab dinner or a couple beers on the way home.</p><p>But first Bill had put up tentative, faintly self-righteous resistance. “You do know I have muh-my own house, right? One that’s not even thirty minutes away,” Bill had said when Richie pressed him to pick a bedroom on his tour around the house, a wry smirk tilting his voice up.</p><p>“What?” Richie said, one eyebrow climbing his forehead. “You really think you’ll never need to spend the night?”</p><p>Considering they’d crashed in Bill’s guest room <em>both </em>times they went over since their first visit, less because they got too drunk and more because they stayed up too late playing video games to bother driving themselves home (apparently Eddie hadn’t touched a console since <em>college </em>so they had decades of gold to catch him up on), Bill shrugged and sheepishly chose the front corner bedroom, the one that got the best early morning sunlight, the one Richie had privately thought Mike would like most but hey, <em>Mike </em>wasn’t coming over practically every other day to hang out and help pull down wallpaper and drink beer and eat the meals Richie was teaching Eddie how to cook. He was somewhere in the fucking Everglades assumedly wrangling alligators or something. Plus Richie still wasn’t convinced he and Bill weren’t going to hook up eventually so maybe one day it <em>would </em>be his room too. Fingers crossed.</p><p>The house slowly came together. Eddie still panicked every once in a while, usually after a particularly worrying email from his divorce lawyer or a frustrating day at work. They’d be painting test swatches on the cabinets in the kitchen, debating which almost-the-same shade of blue would best offset Richie’s paella (which Eddie fucking loved and Richie cooked too often even though it was kind of a lot of work because it made Eddie smile and he’d send pictures of the neatly packed leftovers which he’d bring to work to eat for lunch – <em>cute cute CUTE</em>) when suddenly Eddie’s mile-a-minute talking would hit a frantic pace and he’d unravel on a wordless shout.</p><p>Sometimes Richie would fold him into a hug until his breathing settled back down. Sometimes he’d ask questions to help Eddie sort out whatever was going on in that tangled up noodle of his that got him so spun around. Sometimes he’d lead him into the hot tub and rub his shoulders (a guilty pleasure Richie only let himself give into if he was sure he wouldn’t trade his fingers for his tongue, resisting the temptation of Eddie’s skin even harder now than it was when he was a teenager and thought Eddie’s knobby knees wrapped around him under the water was the height of sexual stimulation).</p><p>On rarer occasions, Eddie retreated to his own room for privacy – that was when Richie worried the most – but he respected his privacy and his space and made him almond milk hot chocolate when he finally reappeared later on in the day, relishing the way Eddie liked to sit a little too close to him on the couch and, if Richie was feeling very bold, sneaking his arm along the back cushion in an imitation of an embrace and trying not to think too hard about the fact that Eddie always sank into his side like he belonged there.</p><p>Which method of stress-deflection Richie used to help settle Eddie was determined by a complicated method of trial and error but Richie was slowly figuring it out, learning the tells of Adult Eddie the same way he had Young Eddie. He didn’t always hit it out of the park but he was getting better and Eddie was too; learning the early signs of a panic attack and sometimes flat out requesting (re: demanding – Richie’s fucking loved it) a hug or a conversation or a backrub.</p><p>That Eddie so freely asked for his help made <em>Richie </em>feel… <em>a lot</em> of things. Mostly overwhelming love and pride with a hint of giddiness that <em>he </em>was a part of Eddie’s solution because Eddie was very much a part of how he was keeping his own act together – it was easier to force himself to write knowing Eddie would smile at whatever stupid jokes Richie tested out on him when he got home from work. Richie even tossed the leftover bottle of prescription pain meds now that his arm had settled into a mostly achy kind of hurt, drinking only with his friends and only when he was happy and never to the point of a blackout.</p><p>Laid out in his head it didn’t <em>sound </em>like progress but it probably was. His therapist said it was and, in theory, he had to trust her opinion cause she had a fucking diploma on her wall that said she knew more about that shit than he did (though to be fair, the puppets on Sesame Street knew more about emotional development than he did).</p><p>Halloween rolled in and they did their fucking best to avoid clowns even though, god help him, Richie couldn’t stop singing, “<em>Everyone is running from the likes of the killer klowns, From outer space, Killer klow-o-wow-o-wow-o-wooons! From outer space</em>,” to save his life.</p><p>“I know you’re doing that to piss me off, fuckhole,” Eddie snapped once when he padded back into the kitchen after his morning swim, accepting the coffee Richie held out to him. Eddie was an early riser but on the nights the Deadlight nightmares dragged Richie from sleep, he was better off taking a nap later on in the day while Eddie was at work. The dreams weren’t allergic to sunlight but it was easier to remember he wasn’t still in that fucking cave when he woke up with light streaming through the living room window.</p><p>Richie would be more annoyed about being forced awake at three in the morning were it not for the fact that it meant he got to steal a half hour with Eddie in the kitchen before he showered and left for work.</p><p>“I’m honestly not,” Richie said, clinking his coffee mug against Eddie’s. “It’s just too fucking catchy.” After a long moment where Eddie glared at him over the rim of his own cup, Richie added, “Plus, what are the odds that our very specific and unrelatable trauma could be so perfectly immortalized in a rock anthem?”</p><p>Eddie shot him a withering scowl but Richie caught him humming it later on his way out the door.</p><p>Halloween day Eddie donned Richie’s old Top Gun jumpsuit and a pair of aviators he bought at CVS and Richie spent a lot of time thinking through the logistics of fucking a tiny, perfect man in what was essentially a onesie. To get his dick out, he’d practically have to be half naked, that bizarrely toned chest on fucking display because Eddie was unfairly cut under all his dorky polos. Not <em>Ben </em>ripped – thank god, Richie wouldn’t even be able to <em>fantasize </em>about having a chance with Eddie if he was that ripped - but Eddie was undeniably, <em>achingly </em>beautiful with most of his clothes off and Richie didn’t know how to fucking live with that knowledge except chafe himself to death jerking off.</p><p>They went to the West Hollywood Halloween Parade, the most vibrantly gay thing Richie had ever done – even more so than having an actual penis inside of him - because as a man living in fear of his sexuality, he had never so much as glanced at Pride and kept a wide berth between him and any well-known gay bars. Richie went dressed as a hotdog, something Eddie half-hated but the smile almost constantly trying to turn up his lips was totally worth his fake scorn.</p><p>It was Richie’s first big social outing since his <em>own </em>outing and despite the hotdog costume which covered everything but his jean clad legs and the oval of his face, more than a few people recognized him, fans stopping him to ask if they could snap pictures and post them online. And, even though there was still a steady stream of toxicity streaming into his twitter page with every new tweet he posted, he was congratulated more in person than he ever would have imagined possible, admittedly sometimes very gushily from people a few too many drinks deep but you could always trust the extremely plastered to be honest about their feelings.</p><p>And some of that crippling fear of getting up in front of people again started to crumble around the edges, aided, largely, by Eddie standing with convenience store aviator glasses over his eyes, arms crossed like a fucking body guard, looking sexy as fuck with the scar bisecting his dimple, displaying an otherwise unexpected skill of stepping back to let Richie interact with each person for a few minutes, and then hilariously and also perfectly inserting himself when a fan kept him too long, dragging Richie away before things got awkward or uncomfortable.</p><p>Thanks to a bit of inadvertent bar hopping, they both wound up impressively drunk, so much so they found a group of people dressed like scary clowns and the night ended with Richie trying to explain why Eddie was belligerently roasting them to fucking shreds while doubled over in unstoppable laughter. Luckily, the costumed-clowns were equally drunk and recognized Richie from his stand-up and took it all in stride. Apparently the Losers weren’t the only people who hated clowns, just the ones with the best fucking excuse.</p><p>In the days that followed, Richie trended briefly on twitter. More accurately, <em>Eddie</em> trended when someone started reposting all the pictures people had taken with Richie at the parade, circling Eddie who was almost constantly present in the background, arms crossed and serious looking (to anyone who didn’t know Eddie well enough to know the faint quirk to his lips was actually pleasure). Thanks to the podcast interview and the paparazzi pictures, the public knew his name and Richie’s twitter-based fans spent twelve beautiful hours theorizing about their relationship – something Richie obsessively followed in part because it was hilarious and in part because he had a lot of emotional problems.</p><p>Eddie was called his boyfriend, his bodyguard, his long-lost brother, his lover, his stalker, or Richie personal favorite conspiracy theory: the man who had kidnapped Richie after he bombed on stage and brainwashed him into coming out as gay in the three-ish days Richie spent incommunicado in Derry. Richie spent a good chunk of time contemplating the truth in each of those options, cackling madly when Eddie screamed indignantly when Richie showed him the kidnapping tweet thread.</p><p>And yeah, okay, Eddie didn’t <em>make </em>him gay – it probably wasn’t Eddie’s fault he was so fucking cute - but he was definitely Richie’s sexual awakening so he didn’t <em>not </em>make him gay.</p><p>At least Steve was happy he was getting a bit of free PR. Sure that meant he started pressing Richie to go on the talk show circuit again but the thought of sitting down in front of a camera wasn’t as terrifying as it had been the last time the offers were on the table so maybe there was some progress there too.</p><p>As November rolled in Richie realized, despite Eddie’s borderline hostile insistence that he didn’t want them, Eddie<em> did</em> in fact need to take breaks from working on the house in between all the times he went to actual work because his anxiety attacks hit a noticeable uptick. Unfortunately, Eddie wouldn’t slow down for anything short of a fucking heart attack so Richie laid an Eddie catching trap. And if there was one thing Richie was good at, it was re-routing Eddie’s attention onto himself because he needed that more than he needed sunlight, water, or air.</p><p>One Saturday, instead of puttering around on his phone while Eddie showered post-swim/pre-housework, he grabbed a book off the living room shelf and wandered out to the yard, slinging himself into the hammock and pretending to read while he surreptitiously watched the house for signs of Eddie. It only took ten minutes for Eddie to find him (Richie had left the backdoor open as a not-so-subtle hint) and when he came out, he was already juggling the handful of carpet samples they’d picked up earlier in the week, an impressive furrow darkening his brow. He had yet again stolen and donned one of Richie’s old graphic tees, a sure sign he meant to get to work because he never wore his own clothes while he painted or tiled or caulked and as far as Richie was concerned, Eddie could ruin <em>all </em>of Richie’s wardrobe if it meant seeing Eddie walk around looking homey in Richie’s t-shirts.</p><p>“Don’t you think a pattern would be too busy?” Eddie asked as he came to a stop at the pergola, leaning against the support beam and flipping through his swatches. Eddie did that a lot; started a conversation in the middle of his thought, almost like he expected Richie to know exactly what he was thinking about with little to no context. The thing was, Richie usually <em>did </em>know what he was talking about, but then again he was kind of obsessed with the guy so he was definitely an outlier when it came to reading Eddie’s mind.</p><p>“I don’t know if you’ve noticed but I <em>like</em> patterns,” Richie said with a grin, relieved when Eddie finally looked up at him, blinking in surprise like he hadn’t expected to find himself out in the yard. With a quick scan, Eddie took in Richie’s pose (reclined leisurely in the hammock), his clothes (still his cozy house stuff, sweatpants and a t-shirt), and the book in his hands (<em>Harry Potter</em>, the first one – they were still only gently easing into horror movies – ones where the gore or horror was too stupid to be close to the real thing they saw in their nightmares – so one of Bill’s books would have to wait until Richie was a little <em>less </em>freshly-traumatized).</p><p>“What are you doing?” Eddie asked. “I thought we were going to work on the office today.”</p><p>They’d mostly finished the living room and they’d un-wallpapered and painted Eddie’s room though the contractors were still working on his bathroom. Most of the other rooms had a smattering of furniture – enough so that Bev had agreed to stay with them when she came out at the end of the month for her work-thing because Richie had practically begged (and he had maybe sent her a picture of Bill and Audra with the caption ‘<em>this u?</em>’, her reply: 😬 😬 😬 😬) – but Richie liked the idea of the Losers getting a say in the way their rooms looked so they hadn’t gone hog-wild yet on filling every inch of the house.</p><p>That was all a part of Richie’s masterplan to make the Tozier-Kaspbrak Estate <em>everyone’s </em>home, even though he knew they were all adults with their own places all over the country (<em>world </em>technically, fucking Ben and his country house in <em>France</em>). He wanted the Losers to feel an ownership over the place, the same way they felt an ownership over the clubhouse when they were kids even though Ben had built the place by hand and the rest of them had strolled in and called it their own. He wanted them to be able to tell their work-friends, ‘<em>yeah, I’ve got a little place out in California</em>,’ and think fondly of the house that Richie internally coined the Tozier-Kaspbrak-Marsh-Denborough-Hanlon-Hanscom Estate but never said out loud because it was such a fucking mouthful and maybe a little pathetic, besides.</p><p>Richie was still sleeping on a mattress on the floor and living out of his boxes, mostly because he was way more concerned with finding Bev the prefect bedframe - and one that could withstand the pelvic thrusting of Ben (Richie had ‘tested’ it loudly and vigorously in the furniture store much to Bill’s delight and Eddie’s red-cheeked embarrassment) - than he was with finding one for himself but whatever. He’d get around to it eventually.</p><p>“Let’s take a break today, Eds,” Richie said, wiggling his hips until the hammock swung back and forth a little, the edge nudging Eddie’s hip.</p><p>“Beverly will be here in two weeks,” Eddie reminded him, as if there wasn’t a calendar in the kitchen with a big red circle around her arrival date. They both (and Bill too every time he came over) stared at it a little stupidly at least once a day, clearly counting down the days.</p><p>“Why would Bev need the office?”</p><p>“What if she has important fashion-business to do?” Eddie bit back, gesturing sharply with a flat hand.</p><p>“She can do it on her laptop at the kitchen counter the same way we do,” Richie answered easily. “Or in her bedroom. Or in her company’s <em>actual office building</em>. Come on Eds, we deserve a break.”</p><p>“I do not <em>need a break</em>,” Eddie hissed and Richie realized his misstep. Eddie didn’t like being treated like he was fragile and being told he needed a break was like saying he was working too hard or making himself sick or all the other things Mrs. K. used to say when she wanted to trap him indoors.</p><p>“Okay then, <em>I </em>need a break,” Richie said, and it was a low move but he rubbed at his shoulder which had been feeling consistently weirder than normal as the weather finally tipped into something chillier than the summerish heat of October.</p><p>“You coulda told me your shoulder was hurting,” Eddie said at once, and Richie felt a little guilty about complaining. “Want me to get the Icy Hot?”</p><p>“It’s not so bad, Eds,” Richie rushed to reassure him. “Just thought I’d give it a rest before I do something stupid and wind up having to jerk off with the wrong hand.”</p><p>Eddie rolled his eyes and then zeroed in on the book in Richie’s hand. “Oh good. Much like your sense of humor, your reading level never surpassed the seventh grade.”</p><p>“<em>Eddie</em>,” Richie gasped. “How dare you speak that way about The Boy Who Lived.”</p><p>“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”</p><p>They blinked at each other.</p><p>“You’ve never read <em>Harry Potter</em>?” Richie asked incredulously. He’d mostly snagged the book as a prop but now a better idea popped into his head. “You’re telling me the kid who ate up <em>The Hobbit </em>like it was a six course meal never read <em>Harry </em>fucking <em>Potter</em>?”</p><p>“You mean did I, an adult, ever pick up and read a book for children? No, I haven’t read <em>Harry Potter</em>.”</p><p>“Eddie.” Richie scooted over in the hammock, the thing wobbling dramatically as he did so. “Get the fuck in the hammock, Eddie.”</p><p>“<em>Why</em>,” Eddie asked hesitantly, already climbing in, his legs pressing along the length of Richie’s body. Richie undid Eddie’s shoelaces and dropped his practical sneakers next to the hammock, Eddie’s hand absently landing on Richie’s jean-clad calf and fiddling with his hem. Richie ached with wanting.</p><p>“I’m going to read you this fucking book and you’re going to like it,” Richie answered.</p><p>“You gonna do the Voices?” Eddie asked, and he was obviously trying to sound disaffected and annoyed and put-upon-angry but he couldn’t hide that childish petulantness that Richie found way too fucking cute.</p><p>“<em>Obviously</em>.”</p><p>This was something they used to do when they were young and they’d run out of money to spend on movies or got bored with fucking around in the Kenduskeag or wanted an excuse to snuggle up next to each other which, for Richie’s part, was almost constantly. Eddie was a lot more cuddly than his feral exterior would lead one to believe – like an anxious stray cat who needed to be won over slowly with pieces of lunchmeat before it walked right into your house and made itself at home.</p><p>The two of them spent a lot of time the summer after It crammed up next to each other in the hammock, Richie reading aloud <em>Ender’s Game </em>or <em>The Lord of the Rings</em> or books from the <em>Discworld </em>series, Eddie sitting still for once – occasionally bursting into angry tirades about whatever was happening on page, Richie playing devil’s advocate just to push his buttons. Eddie in his cast couldn’t swim in the quarry to escape the summer heat and Richie would rather sweat through every shirt he owned than ditch Eddie like the others sometimes did to take a dip so the two of them hid out underground, Stan occasionally letting himself be talked into reading from his own books since he no longer liked swimming in any water that attached to the sewer (understandable). So he’d join them in the Clubhouse, perched on the overturned milk crate, leaving dialogue and Voices up to Richie while he read the narration with boring, lovely schoolboy recitation.</p><p>In retrospect, they were obviously pretty big dorks. But reading about Hobbits and Ents and Dwarves in the Losers’ own little underground mine was better than being stuck at home alone, especially for Eddie, <em>especially</em> after he confronted his mother and she tried her hardest to keep things<em> the same</em> and every minute Eddie spent in her presence was a battle. Richie would always pull up to their house in the morning on his bike, the sounds of both of them shouting drifting out onto the street, louder when Eddie opened the door and muffled when he slammed it closed behind him. Richie could still feel the vice-grip of Eddie’s hands on his shoulders while he climbed onto the pegs of his bike and told him, “<em>Let’s get the fuck out of here</em>,” because Sonia had secretly sold Eddie’s bike to a neighbor in an attempt to keep him in her clutches and the Losers spent the next three months pooling their money to replace it.</p><p>Every morning, Richie would lean forward over his handlebars and concentrate on the feeling of Eddie’s fingers knotted in his shirt like a lifeline because if Richie thought too hard about how <em>powerless</em> he was to spare Eddie that heartbreak – to spare <em>all </em>his friends their varied but similar woes – he’d lose his fucking mind.</p><p>Twenty-seven years later, sitting on the opposite side of the hammock from Richie, wearing almost the exact same angry-intrigued pout he’d worn when he was a kid, Eddie settled down like he was hypnotized, huge eyes locked on Richie when he started reading.</p><p>To Eddie’s outspoken anger (which was obviously secretly delight) Richie had gotten a lot better at Voices.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>“Beverly <em>likes </em>the wallpaper, don’t you Bev,” Richie said, half to Eddie who was standing in the doorway of the room that would be Bev’s with his arms crossed and half to Bev whose mischievous smile spread across Richie’s phone screen. Behind her was a postcard worthy Italian shoreline that was just upsettingly beautiful but couldn’t hold a candle to the vein currently pulsing in Eddie’s temple. Richie had the best view in the fucking universe, better still when Eddie stomped over and crammed himself into Richie’s space so he could see Bev and be visible on the facetime call.</p><p>“I do like it, Eddie!” Bev answered immediately, her grin positively Cheshire-like. “It’s retro-chic. So ugly it’s cool. Leave a wall of it for me, please?”</p><p>Richie could actually hear Eddie’s teeth grinding but he couldn’t refuse Bev anything – fucking none of them could, especially not when she was saying please – and the acceding sigh Eddie breathed out was through his teeth like a hiss.</p><p>“Yeah, obviously we’ll leave it if you like it but don’t think for a fucking second I don’t know Richie talked you into this.” Both Richie and Bev burst into laughter and Eddie huffed, “I fucking <em>knew </em>it,” before stomping off into the house and making a racket in the kitchen, probably trying to sort out dinner. He’d been trying to learn how to cook, mostly with Richie and youtube as a teacher. A few pots banged against each other which was Eddie code for ‘<em>give me attention</em>’ because cooking was still a Richie-supervised activity after Eddie somehow lit the contents of a frying pan on fire with his first attempt at sautéing.</p><p>They now had <em>three </em>fire extinguishers stashed in strategic locations around the kitchen because Eddie didn’t do anything by halves.</p><p>Which meant Richie had to condense a week’s worth of pining into less than a minute. Beverly, seemingly knowing they’d gotten to the I’m-so-in-love-with-Eddie part of the call, lifted one eyebrow and didn’t even bother hiding her smile.</p><p>Richie yanked at his own hair. “You don’t <em>understand</em>, Bev,” Richie whispered, his face mashed up close to the camera to keep his voice low, ears strained to the sound of Eddie moving around in the kitchen. “He dresses like the guy who comes in to fix the Xerox machine and I’m<em> going bananas</em>. I get a half-chub every time I walk into an Office Max and that's gotta be some kind of sex felony, right?”</p><p>“As long as you aren’t <em>showing</em> anyone your dick you’re fine. And there’s no way you’ve ever set foot in an Office Max.” She paused as then hummed thoughtfully, gears turning behind her eyes. “What size do you think Eddie wears?”</p><p>And because Richie was a creep and knew everything about Eddie (and because they combined their laundry, Richie marveling frequently over how a grown ass man could still fit in jeans so small around the waist) he told her. Thankfully she didn't comment on the fact he knew everything, including Eddie's shoe size.</p><p>Young Richie had never once discussed his feelings about Eddie with Bev even though she had seen straight through his adolescent teasing and poking and prodding to the love-sick gooey center of him. So this was something new. </p><p>It wasn't proof of Richie's emotional development, however, despite what this therapist insisted. This was, instead, an act of desperation. If he didn't vent at least <em>some</em> of his ‘<em>Eddie's so cute I'm gonna die</em>’ thoughts, he'd probably splatter the walls with viscera. Bev was the obvious choice to play confidant - she already knew about his obsession, for one, and she was more likely to laugh at his heartbreak which was what Richie needed much more than Mike’s optimism or Ben's inevitable sincerity or Bill's probable mix of humor and disbelief.</p><p>If Stan were around…</p><p>No offense to Bev but if Stan were around, he'd be the one getting these obsessive calls mostly cause he'd be ten times more biting and a thousand times less patient. But Richie tried not to spend too much time dwelling on that.</p><p>Not for the first time, Richie thought, stupidly, of the number saved in his cell phone. Patricia Uris’ phone number. The one she’d written down on a separate note that she’d folded into the envelope with Stan’s letter with the subcaption, ‘<em>call me anytime if you want to talk</em>.’ All the Losers had gotten it and, almost on autopilot, Richie had programmed it into his phone. Just in case. In case of <em>what</em>, he had no fucking idea and he’d <em>never </em>call her to lament his crush-related woes – he wasn’t a fucking <em>psychopath</em> – but the compulsion to hear her voice and know her better was buried there under about a thousand pounds of guilt.</p><p>By the time Richie was done rattling Eddie’s size information off to Bev, Eddie’s stompy footsteps were approaching down the hall and Richie frantically ended the call, sing-songing his ‘I love you’s and meeting a disgruntled looking Eddie at the door.</p><p>“Need something from the high shelf, babe?” he asked, hoping Eddie wouldn’t think anything of his slightly flushed and sweaty face.</p><p>“Fuck you,” Eddie bit back, crossing his arms again. “You put the pasta sauce up there on purpose.”</p><p>Richie laughed, bright and loud. He most certainly had.</p><p>Richie hadn't really expected for Bev to <em>do</em> anything about his very specific khaki-related developing fetish – it was just something he needed to say out loud, something that had been creeping into the notebook he was filling with weird jokes he could probably never tell because they were mostly about Eddie – but she did anyways. A few days after that call, two packages came, one for Eddie, and a smaller one for Richie. When Eddie opened his, he stared perplexedly down into it.</p><p>“What’s this?” he asked, voice drowned out by Richie’s own raucous laughter.</p><p>Richie’s package contained a complete outfit from shirt and shorts down to socks and shoes of clothing covered in various banana prints. A handwritten note sat on top reading, ‘<em>may as well embrace it, Richie</em>’ signed with three hearts. (Richie immediately suspected this was the work of Bev’s assistant because the handwriting was too bubbly and Bev was in fucking <em>Italy </em>so no way was she sending him personally packaged boxes without bending space and time – what her poor assistant had to think of the banana-clothing scavenger hunt Richie was <em>dying </em>to know.)</p><p>“Oh, so she knows you're losing your mind,” Eddie wondered aloud non-committaly. “You gonna try ‘em on?”</p><p>And because Richie would do<em> anything</em> for a laugh, particularly Eddie's laugh, he started scrambling out of his shirt and jeans right there in the living room, pulling on the teal button up printed with bananas that, honestly, he already loved. Once he was dressed head to toe, Eddie <em>did</em> laugh, snapping pics and sending them to the group chat and cursing Bev for making Richie an even more obtrusive, unfashionable eyesore.</p><p>In the chaos of posing with the bananas that Eddie ate with breakfast and practically fainting when Eddie giggled so hard his eyes teared up and just about dying of affection when Eddie announced a sudden craving for banana bread which Richie immediately started making, Richie forgot entirely about what Bev might have sent to Eddie.</p><p>It<em> was not</em> a box full of banana themed clothing - that became immediately obvious the next morning when Richie hobbled into the kitchen, slid his glasses on, and blurted, “<em>Arms</em>,” like some kind of idiot.</p><p>But Eddie was wearing a <em>tank top</em>. <em>What the fuck</em>. Loose fit and soft looking with low cut arm holes where Richie could steal peeks at Eddie's fucking <em>ribs</em>. Not to mention his arms which just, like, what? He knew Eddie went to the gym a couple times a week but <em>what the fuck.</em></p><p>Eddie, leaning against the counter and sipping coffee out of a mug, looking <em>so fucking relaxed</em> in a tank and cozy joggers (also new), blushed behind his cup.</p><p>“Yeah, <em>arms</em> asshole. Everyone has them.”</p><p>“Most don't look like <em>that</em>,” Richie said, maybe a little more angrily than he intended but fuck it was so early and he was still in just his boxer briefs and <em>for sure </em>Eddie would be able to see the boner he'd sprung if he didn't hide it behind the kitchen island, like, <em>immediately</em>. Richie nearly tripped in his haste to shove himself behind the counter, hips first, his dick making sudden, hard contact with the cabinet. He grunted, trying to disguise the noise as a cough.</p><p>“What, you think you’re the only one with muscles?” Eddie snapped, and okay, Richie might be having some kind of boner-induced-hallucination but he was pretty sure Eddie’s eyes were raking over Richie’s bare chest. His very unimpressive bare chest. Richie’s dick pulsed against the cabinet like an over-eager dog and again he found himself asking ‘<em>Do </em>I have a chance?’</p><p>“Uhhh…” Richie hummed in a monotone, trying to figure out if this was another one of those dreams he kept having, the ones that started like a bad porno and ended with sweaty sheets and his hand down his underwear. He crammed his hips a little harder against the counter, distressed to realize he was so hard that humping the wood of his cabinets wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable a feeling as it should have been.</p><p>Eddie crossed his arms and unless Richie <em>was </em>fainting from lack of blood flow to his brain, he was pretty sure Eddie, like, <em>flexed</em>, the corded muscle below his skin fucking <em>rippling</em>. If Richie weren’t practically brain dead, he’d try to make fun of him for being such a fucking dweeb but unfortunately his dick was fully in charge and more than thrilled with the gun show.</p><p>“Bev got me this stuff,” Eddie said, glancing down at himself, hiding a smile behind his coffee mug. “You got a fucking problem with it?”</p><p>“No!” Richie said, entirely too fast, so he tried again, “No. It’s great, Eds. You look…” <em>oh come on, think of something funny</em>, “…good.” <em>Fuck.</em> “Really good.” <em>Double fuck.</em></p><p>Eddie looked just as surprised at Richie’s bald-faced admission, huge doe eyes wide and framed by those fucking eyelashes – what the <em>fuck </em>was with those eyelashes? Richie was going to <em>die.</em></p><p>“Oh,” Eddie said, cheeks turning pink. Richie was 98% sure he’d woken up in some alternate dimension. “Uh, thanks.”</p><p>And then, because it seemed entirely possible they were both just going to stand there blushing and staring at each other and Richie <em>could not handle that</em>, he spun and fled the room.</p><p>His reprieve was short lived.</p><p>Later on that day (after a record breaking meat-beating session featuring Eddie peeling off normal human clothes instead of his catholic school boy garb for once), Richie passed the back window leading out into the yard, glanced out at the peripheral sight of Eddie, and promptly stumbled over a new rug.</p><p>Eddie was wearing criminally short shorts. Red shorts. With white lining.</p><p>If Richie wasn’t always too fucking aware that there was a twenty-three year stretch where they’d grown up and apart and away from Derry, he’d be convinced they were the same shorts that <em>tormented </em>him when he was thirteen and just discovered masturbation and the joys of stealing peeks at Eddie’s thighs and how well those two things paired together like a nice cheese plate of lust.</p><p>He didn’t even realize his phone was in his hand – eyes <em>locked </em>on Eddie as he rearranged the yard furniture they’d just bought for the patio and outdoor fireplace – until Bev’s voice spoke some kind of greeting in his ear and he half-shouted, “<em>Are you trying to </em>kill <em>me</em>?!” instinctively.</p><p>Bev cackled on the other end of the line. “It’s the shorts, isn’t it?”</p><p>“Do you want me dead? Is this you putting a fucking hit out on my life?”</p><p>She laughed harder. “You don’t like them?” she asked, faux-innocent.</p><p>Richie padded into the kitchen, both so that he’d get a closer view of Eddie in those fucking shorts and so that he’d be less obvious while he recovered enough brain-cells to stop actively gawking. “I don’t know if I want to kiss you stupid or throw you into the sea.”</p><p>“Are you talking to me or Eddie?”</p><p>“Oh I know <em>exactly </em>what I want to do to Eddie,” Richie mumbled lowly as the man in question bent over, his stupidly toned legs on full display, his appallingly adorable butt filling the red fabric <em>perfectly</em>.</p><p>“Okay champ, I don’t want to have to file a police report,” Bev said, her chuckles dying down. “Keep it in your pants.”</p><p>“Why did you have to make him <em>cuter</em>?” Richie groaned, knowing exactly how whiny he sounded and not giving a single fuck.</p><p>“Richie, you know what I’m going to say.”</p><p>“That you <em>hate </em>me and want me to die from erection-induced-asphyxiation?”</p><p>“<em>No</em>,” Bev said, laughing some more. “<em>Tell Eddie</em>.”</p><p>“How fucking cute he is?” Richie echoed dumbly.</p><p>“<em>How you feel</em>,” Bev said slowly and emphatically like he was a particularly dumb child which, considering how many thoughts were currently housed in his brain (one, he had a single thought in his head and it was blankly <em>Eddie </em>like his name was some sort of hail-mary) was actually pretty fair. “God, are you always this stupid when you’re horny?”</p><p>“Why do you think I failed calculus?”</p><p>“Why were you horny in calculus?!”</p><p>“Because <em>Eddie</em> tutored me. It got to the point I’d spring a tent anytime I saw a function.”</p><p>“Wow, you’re hopeless.”</p><p>“Tell me about it.”</p><p>“Tell <em>Eddie </em>about it,” Bev insisted. “Maybe then you won’t have to do math to get hard.”</p><p>“Oh Beverly, there are <em>no issues </em>with getting hard going on over here.”</p><p>“Please no more dick updates,” Bev sighed and then said, “<em>It’s Richie</em>,” quietly, probably talking to Ben, beautiful perfect Ben who somehow managed to win over his childhood crush and was now sailing around the world with her while she divorced her piece-of-shit abuser. Jesus, Ben was a lucky bastard.</p><p>“<em>Hi Richie</em>!” he heard Ben distantly call while Bev, much louder said, “Ben says hi.”</p><p>In that moment, Richie half wanted to beg him for advice but the thought of another Loser knowing about how fucking <em>pathetic </em>he was over Eddie, how much of his youthful teasing and goading and all the insults were veiled love confessions – Ben would just be disappointed. Ben who was only ever kind to Beverly, who only tried to lift her up and make her happy instead of making ‘your mom’ jokes often enough to get half-pummeled by the boy he was obsessed with. Despite what everyone thought, Richie had <em>some </em>dignity. Not much. But all the more reason to cling to what was left of it.</p><p>Then again…</p><p>“Ben doesn’t, like, <em>know</em>, right?”</p><p>“No,” Bev answered immediately. “That’s your story to tell.”</p><p>“But seriously Bev,” Richie continued, voice still pitched in a whine. “What do I do?”</p><p>“I already told you, hun. <em>Talk to him</em>. It might work out.”</p><p>“But if it <em>doesn’t</em>, where will that leave us?” Eddie, the fucking perfect bastard, sat down on the iron frame couch and then, a moment later, scooted to the seat next to it like he was making sure every spot was up to his standards. Richie could combust with affection. “I couldn’t do that to him, he <em>needs </em>this place Bev, and he needs a friend way more than he needs a cretin who’s been creeping on him his entire life.”</p><p>“Beep beep, Richie. You aren’t a <em>cretin</em>,” Bev said sharply and Richie rolled his eyes. As if she could hear his eyeballs spinning in his head, she repeated, “You <em>aren’t</em>. You’re a very sweet man with a huge heart and a lot of self-esteem issues.”</p><p>“Do I need to pay you for this therapy session, Ms. Marsh?”</p><p>“Don’t change the subject. And you’re just as bad as Eddie with all this overthinking. Since when do you watch what comes out of your mouth? I’d have expected you to have blurted this out ages ago.”</p><p>“Yeah well, I’ve had a lot of practice.”</p><p>Bev hummed acknowledgingly. The irony wasn’t beyond him, either, that the kid known as Trashmouth had kept so many things to himself for thirty fucking years. Being gay, being in love with Eddie, his crippling loneliness and depression. Sure, if you were looking a lot of that wasn’t too hard to see but most people didn’t look that hard at Richie. He liked it that way. Except with the Losers, obviously, but realizing he had friends who actually wanted to <em>know </em>him was still terrifying after twenty years without.</p><p>“Well, think about it,” Bev said briskly, obviously wrapping up their call, Ben’s jovial voice calling her name in the background. “And talk to your <em>actual </em>therapist about it. And tell Eddie we say hi.”</p><p>“Yeah yeah, try not to bust your cervix on Ben’s huge –”</p><p>“Love you, Trashmouth.”</p><p>“Love you too, Marsh.”</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>A little later (i.e. another furious orgasm later, seriously his dick was going to fall off), Richie seated himself on the mustard yellow couch in the living room and stared down the framed picture of Stan he had moved to the coffee table to more adequately glare at it.</p><p>Stan had <em>also </em>been of the opinion he should tell Eddie about his feelings, all the way back in 1993, a fact which Stan had stated, in true Stan-fashion, openly and with absolutely no remorse.</p><p>There had been so little notice that the Urises were moving away from Derry that the last week Stan was in town felt like a fever dream. It was barely half a month before Senior year started. They’d already started comparing which classes they’d probably share and what clubs they planned to be a part of. So the news of him leaving shocked both of them, like someone had opened a trap door underneath their feet and they’d dropped into absolute darkness.</p><p>Stan wasn’t the begging type – nor the type to argue with his parents’ decision – but he had tried to convince them to let him stay and finish out his senior year in Derry.</p><p>Of course it hadn’t worked. Stan’s parents loved him despite their sternness and the weight of their expectations so they’d never leave him behind even if he was on the verge of being an adult. And besides, getting out of Derry was a <em>good </em>thing – something Stanley no doubt had wanted to do since the summer of their thirteenth year. Richie wasn’t stupid enough to think Stan had tried to stay for any other reason than Richie’s own impending breakdown which Stan sensed with animal keenness, Richie folding under all the long, knowing, concerned stares.</p><p>And that was Stan in a nutshell. Richie’s best friend. The first person to see right through Richie’s comedy act to the shriveled pit of him and, instead of recoiling in disgust, Stan continued to like him, maybe even more so because their insides weren’t so different.</p><p>Not that <em>Stan </em>was a shriveled pit – but he knew what it was like to put on a façade, to play a part for the sake of his rabbi father and conservative mother, and not many other seven year olds were pulling stunts like that.</p><p>What everyone else saw when they looked at Stan was the kind of kid who never got in trouble in class for talking out of turn. An upstanding young man who never screamed back at Bowers anti-Semitic bullshit and never questioned his parents. But underneath Stan’s respectable, serious front was someone funny and cunning and less in control of his emotions than he wanted to be.</p><p>The two of them clicked almost right away, kids in fucking synagogue because when Richie was <em>very</em> young, his mom was worried he and his sisters would grow up defective if they didn’t pretend to believe in a higher power. They observed Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur as if going to temple twice a year was gonna make Richie behave better in school. His mom probably thought thrusting Richie in the direction of the rabbi’s son was a great idea – Stanley always so fucking neatly pressed and drenched in Adult Approval – but little did she know the secret hellion that lived under his skin.</p><p>No matter what Richie said, no one believed it was on <em>Stan’s </em>dare that Richie bastardize the Hebrew language during prayer, loudly and so offensively his mother snorted and escorted him out of the room under a sea of glares. And it was on <em>Stan’s </em>suggestion that Richie snuck up to touch the Torah scrolls when no one was looking, Stan discreetly but immediately drawing everyone’s attention so Richie was caught in the act. The fucking bastard. But Richie thought getting kicked out of the synagogue was fucking hilarious and didn’t really care if they never went back so in his mind, Stan had done him a huge favor. And Stan had approached him at school the next Monday, a gleam in his eyes like he was a little impressed, and Richie was a sucker for shit like that.</p><p>The last week Stan spent in Derry, Richie followed him around like a duckling, riding along with him as he dutifully fulfilled all the errands his parents sent him on and sprawling dejectedly across his floor while he packed up his bedroom. Mike and Eddie stopped by as often as possible but Richie hardly ever went home and it <em>still </em>wasn’t enough time – could <em>never </em>be enough time – Stan’s parting somehow more fatalistic than any of the other Losers who had left so far.</p><p>On the eve of Stan’s last night in town, the final four of them slid a stolen bottle of Jack across the floor of Stan’s mostly empty bedroom, sipping from the same vessel like they were enacting some other kind of ritual, something mournful and grief-ridden. And Richie tried – he <em>really fucking tried </em>– to be On, to crack jokes, to lighten the mood, the only fucking thing he was good for, but he kept on looking at Stan and thinking ‘<em>I’ll never see you again and I don’t know how to live with that</em>.’</p><p>And Eddie, either trying to be helpful or because it was <em>always </em>what he did when Richie pulled into himself, only got louder and angrier, clearly trying to rile Richie up into bickering like they usually did, but all Richie wanted to do was cry and cling onto Stan but Stan wasn’t the touchy-feely type - hadn’t been for a long time - and Richie knew how to keep his hands to himself.</p><p>Fuck knows <em>Eddie </em>didn’t, and as the night wore on and the amount of whiskey left in the bottle lowered, he crammed himself up next to Richie and linked their arms together, pulling Richie down until his head rested on Eddie’s shoulder, jostling him with every angry, assertive hand chop. Richie tried to eek what comfort he could from Eddie’s forceful affection, but it just wasn’t hitting the same way proximity to Eddie usually did.</p><p>Richie knew Stan’s eyes were on him – always so observant, a million Looks shot across the green water at the quarry or in a rearview mirror or through the flickering light cast by a sleepover movie – and he expected some sort of fucking lecture once Eddie and Mike left for the night, promising to be back in the morning to see Stan off, but in his premeditated grief, Richie totally forgot how fucking <em>evil </em>Stan could be when he wanted to.</p><p>“Richie, come check this out,” Stan called from down the oddly echoing hall, the rugs and framed pictures packed up into boxes to be carted away.</p><p>“What?” Richie shouted back, perfectly content to dissolve into Stan’s mattress where it sat on the floor, his bed frame already disassembled and stacked into the moving van.</p><p>“Just get over here,” Stan grit back and even though Richie was sinking fast into the kind of melancholy that insisted he lay there and wait to die, he shoved himself up to his feet and padded into the empty hall.</p><p>“Where are you?”</p><p>“The bathroom,” Stan’s voice called from the open door down the hall.</p><p>“What, did you take a record-breaking shit or something,” Richie quipped back, <em>really </em>stretching for a joke. Stan looked utterly unimpressed when he stepped out of the bathroom, arms crossed over his chest.</p><p>“Just go look,” Stan insisted flatly and Richie didn’t brush against him when he passed even though he would have if it were any of the other Losers - even though he really wanted to, just to reassure himself Stan was still there, if only for a few more hours - but it was their last night together and he didn’t want to upset Stan by breaking his no-touching rule.</p><p>“What am I looking for Staniel?” Richie said, turning just in time for the bathroom door to snap closed an inch from his nose. “<em>What the fuck</em>.”</p><p>“Richie,” Stan’s voice filtered through the wood, so seriously Richie’s skin crawled. “We need to talk.”</p><p>“Sounds like you’re breaking up with me,” Richie tried to joke, his hand on the door handle, jiggling it once, going at it again with a firmer grip when it didn’t turn. “What the fuck, are you holding the knob?”</p><p>“Yes, I am,” Stan replied.</p><p>“Well could you fucking <em>stop</em>?” And Richie doubled down on trying to twist it open – no way was <em>Stan</em> stronger than him – but Richie’s hands were sweaty from a night spent plastered to Eddie, pressing his nose to his detergent-summery smelling shirt and trying not to cry.</p><p>“No,” Stan answered flatly. Richie braced his shoulder against the door but it didn’t help. For a guy with no siblings, Stan was really fucking good at this. “Not until you talk to me.”</p><p>“We’re talking right now.”</p><p>“You know what I mean.”</p><p>Maybe that was the worst part about Stan. Everyone else thought Richie was kind of stupid which was fair – he <em>was </em>in too many ways to count. But Stan knew the difference between when Richie was actually an idiot and when he was only pretending and that was a real fucking problem sometimes.</p><p>Richie kicked the door for good measure (hurting his socked foot more than improving his situation) and glanced around the room he’d seem a million times before in the hopes a window or a conveniently oversized ventilation shaft had sprung into existence – anything that meant he could crawl his ass out of the situation – but it was barer than ever before, the rug next to the bathtub missing and all the weird shit moms liked to put out on the sink as decoration packed up except for a single bar of soap and one hand towel. Even the cabinet under the sink and all the shampoos from the shower and the fucking <em>shower curtain</em> had been packed away, absolutely nothing left behind to distract Richie from his own thoughts.</p><p>The space was so empty Richie felt winded, a familiar room turned alien, and he sat down heavily on the lip of the tub in semi-tipsy shock, every reminder that Stan was leaving hitting him like an actual blow.</p><p>“Tell me about Eddie,” Stan demanded from the other side of the bathroom door and Richie cringed, sliding his hands under his glasses to rub at his eyes.</p><p>“You fucking <em>know </em>Eddie.”</p><p>Richie could sense Stan’s eye roll through the inch and a half of wood separating them. “Then pretend I don’t.”</p><p>“This is stupid,” Richie insisted, sliding back to lay in the tub, the porcelain cool and sobering even through his clothing.</p><p>“<em>Richie</em> –” Stan said in his super-serious-adult-time voice and Richie couldn’t help himself from putting on a falsetto and imitating, “<em>Stanley</em> –”</p><p>Stan went on like Richie hadn’t spoken, “You have to tell someone or you’re gonna explode.”</p><p>“Tell someone <em>what</em>?” Richie demanded, his heart in his fucking throat, positive he’d bust if Stan answered for him but kind of desperately hoping he’d say it just so it could finally be out there without Richie losing the ability to deny it if things got weird.</p><p>Stan sighed heavily and the door thumped in the frame like he’d leaned his weight against it, wood creaking, a soft lowering <em>shhhhh</em> of fabric against wall suggesting Stan had sank to the floor.</p><p>Much less demanding, Stan gently requested, “Tell me about Eddie, Rich.”</p><p>Richie knocked his glasses up to his forehead, laying his arm along the lip of the tub in a shocking cold line of skin against porcelain, the blood pounding through his wrists pressed against the chill.</p><p>“This is so stupid,” Richie breathed even though he was already thinking about how often Eddie had literally <em>shook </em>him in the last four hours – as if he could jolt Richie out of his funk by physically throttling him. “He’s a fucking maniac. Absolutely insane.”</p><p>Stan hummed on the other side of the door and with no response to pick apart or turn into a ‘your mom’ joke, Richie was stuck with nothing to think about but Eddie.</p><p>“But he’s pretty smart too,” Richie continued, aiming for something neutral. Something inarguable and unbiased. “Good at math. I’d be flunking if he weren’t helping me with my homework. And he doesn’t let me fucking <em>copy </em>his work - he actually forces me to learn it myself, the self-righteous asshole.” Stan didn’t say a thing and Richie hated the silence. “But I do better on my tests because of it. And when I show him my grades he looks –” Richie blew a long sigh out his nose, “- he looks so fucking <em>proud</em>. Like he knew I could do it all along. <em>Fuck</em>.”</p><p>“What else, Richie,” Stan said quietly, his voice calm and soothing and authoritative. Richie sank lower, his bent knees comically protruding over the lip of the tub. It had been a long time since Richie had taken a bath and he was too big for the Uris’s tub. Or whoever’s tub it would be tomorrow when they left and someone else moved in. Shit, whoever they were, Richie hated them already.</p><p>Maybe thinking about Eddie was better than thinking about that.</p><p>“Eddie’s funny. Fucking funnier than me which is just unfair.”</p><p>“Everyone’s funnier than you,” Stan said, a smile obvious in the shape of his words.</p><p>“Yeah yeah. But <em>no one’s</em> as funny as Eddie. The crap that comes out that kid’s face – and you all call <em>me </em>Trashmouth… Do you know what he said to me yesterday? He said,” Richie started chuckling, despite everything, “‘<em>If I swallowed a penny, I’d take a shit with more common sense than you</em>.’” Richie’s chuckles turned into full-bellied laughter just remembering it, the first real laugh he’d had all day just like it had been the only real laugh he had yesterday. Stan’s snort of amusement filtered through the door and even if it wasn’t Richie’s joke pulling it out of him, Richie was glad to hear it, savoring the sound, hoping it wouldn’t be the last time he’d hear it even though some part of him already knew it would be. “The kid is good for some real Grade-A chucks.”</p><p>“He is,” Stan agreed, neutral as fucking ever. “A good friend, too.”</p><p>“Kinda protective, huh?”</p><p>Stan hummed again.</p><p>“Did you know Flatley drew swastikas on your locker before winter break?”</p><p>“How original,” Stan intoned, unimpressed, obviously rolling his eyes. Then he paused. “I never saw them.”</p><p>“Course not. Eddie cleaned them up before you got to school – fought with the fucking janitor to get the supplies and did it himself.” Eddie had scrubbed like a maniac, Richie posted at the door on lookout and distraction detail in case Stan got there before he finished. Then he crammed the evidence into his backpack at the last minute so the only thing left when Stan approached his locker was the faint scent of rubbing alcohol lingering in the air.</p><p>“Then he asked me to break into Flatley’s locker during lunch so he could stash an egg sandwich in there. That’s why it smelled like something fucking died in the hallway when we all got back from break.” Richie chuckled again, rubbing at the small smile tugging at his face. “Flatley’s gym uniform reeked like rotten eggs the rest of the fucking year.”</p><p>There was no sound from the hallway but Richie knew Stan was still there, quietly processing.</p><p>“Don’t tell Eddie I told you that. He didn’t want you to know but I figure you’re getting out of here so what the fuck can Flatley do to hurt you now?”</p><p>“Secret’s safe with me,” Stan said, his voice a little thick.</p><p>And that was it, right? Stan kept every secret – always had.</p><p>When Richie broke the Uris’ front window with a foul ball, Stan botched the crime scene to look like it was the newspaper delivery boy so Richie wouldn’t get in trouble. When Richie threw up after he found out he was cast as the titular character in the school’s production of <em>The Nerd</em>, Stan wiped his face off with a paper towel, handed him a stick of gum, and probed him with his trapper keeper back into the theater like nothing out of the ordinary had happened, smiling to himself when Richie screwed back on his confidence-shtick and mock-humbly brushed off congratulations. When Richie told him, offhand, that once the Paul Bunyan statue had tried to eat him, all false bravado and half-joking, Stan had made a point to avoid steering the group past the park for any reason that wasn’t necessity, convincing everyone cutting down the railroad tracks was the better way to walk downtown even though it practically doubled the trip.</p><p>Stan was <em>good </em>at keeping secrets. And after ten years together, maybe Richie could trust Stan with this one thing that was so tightly coiled inside him it hurt.</p><p>“I like him,” Richie breathed, the thought leaving his head in actual spoken words for the first time and it was like exhaling smoke that had been trapped in his lungs too long, his rib cage suddenly fragile without the vice of that secret. “I like Eddie. I like him <em>so much</em>, Stan.”</p><p>“You should tell him,” Stan said simply, like it wasn’t a fucking miracle Richie had said it to him.</p><p>“I <em>can’t</em>.”</p><p>“Why not?”</p><p>“He’ll be disgusted.”</p><p>Stan scoffed. “You can’t really think that. If you did, you wouldn’t like him so much.”</p><p>Stan had hit on something there but Richie wasn’t about to tell him that. “I might have AIDS.”</p><p>“<em>You do not have AIDS</em>,” Stan snapped, completely no-nonsense.</p><p>“You don’t know that.”</p><p>“Yes I do. I know you’re a virgin, Richie, no matter how big you talk.”</p><p>“Then I might <em>give </em>him AIDS.”</p><p>“That’s not how it works.”</p><p>Richie knew that – he’d obsessively poured over the pamphlets on display at the doctor’s office, the ones he’d pinched when no one was looking and tucked into the very bottom of his backpack waiting until well past midnight to take them out and read – but there was a stigma. Liking boys and having AIDS so fucking tied together there was no escaping that web. And even if Eddie was better about sickness and disease than he used to be, a fucking <em>pandemic </em>was notable enough to tip him back into a panic.</p><p>“But does <em>Eddie </em>know that?” Richie reminded Stan who hummed again and Richie knew he’d made his point.</p><p>“Eddie walked into a <em>sewer</em> to protect his friends. Do you really think he’d throw you away because you <em>like </em>him?” And Stan <em>never </em>brought up that summer, most the time he acted like he forgot the whole damn thing, so there was a power in that question Richie had been unprepared to hear.</p><p>“I –”</p><p>“Liking someone is a good thing, Richie. <em>Loving </em>someone is a good thing.” Richie choked on a sob. He hadn’t said – he couldn’t say… ‘<em>liking</em>’ was so much safer even if his head and his heart and his whole fucking body ached with how much he <em>loved </em>Eddie but if finding out Richie liked him might crush Eddie, knowing Richie <em>loved </em>him might flatten him into smear. “He’d want to know, Rich.”</p><p>“Good thing this isn’t about him.”</p><p>“This is –” Stan so rarely got mad it would have been funny to hear the anger in his voice in any other situation. “Richie, this is <em>literally about him</em>!”</p><p>“It’s about me too so just fuck off,” Richie bit back.</p><p>After a long moment of dead air, the only sound the faint breathy heaving of Stan controlling his usually well-checked tempter, Stan said, “He might be next,” and Richie’s face crumpled, hands raising to scrub away the sudden cascade of tears. “He’s gonna leave eventually and that’ll be it, Rich. It might be him next or it might be you but once you’re gone, you’re gone.”</p><p>Richie stifled a choking gasp. So Stan knew too – that the others didn’t just <em>move on </em>like Eddie was so ready to believe. Richie had talked it over plenty with Mike. Long, rambling discussions that were nothing more than guesses that left them both dejected as fuck. They kept those to themselves, though, because Eddie and Stan seemed happier trying to pretend the summer of ’89 hadn’t happened.</p><p>Figured Stan would have worked that out on his own and kept it to himself. He kept too many things to himself.</p><p>“I know,” Richie finally answered when he was confident it wouldn’t come out a sob. “I can’t –”</p><p>The knob twisted, the door creaking as it opened a crack and Stan – his dear face so fucking sincere, eyes sure and serious, the ring of little scars riming his features like god himself had circled all the best stuff in the universe – very intentionally laid one hand over Richie’s wrist, the point of contact warm and bracing. Richie couldn’t remember the last time Stan had willingly crossed his rigidly enforced personal bubble and <em>fuck </em>Richie had missed that contact. Had missed those stiff hugs and fatherly back pats and the vice grip around his wrist.</p><p>“You can, Richie,” Stan said, nothing but boundless faith. “Be brave.”</p><p>“<em>What the fuck are you doing</em>?”</p><p>Richie jolted so hard his fucked up shoulder twinged, blinking out of his reverie to find Eddie standing over him, brow dipped so hard in a scowl Richie thought his eyebrows were trying to make contact with his ridiculously long lower eyelashes. Richie blinked again, not exactly surprised to find the motion knocked loose a gathered pool of tears.</p><p>Eddie made a little noise – not quite a scoff, it didn’t have the heat of a scoff, maybe something more sympathetic? – and sat himself down on the coffee table, leaning forward to pull off Richie’s glasses and thumb away his tears. The gesture was so intimate Richie huffed out a laugh that was mostly a gasp, whole body going statue still while he watched the blurry shape of Eddie rub the bottom of his shirt against Richie’s glasses.</p><p>Richie couldn’t be sure – he was practically fucking blind – but Eddie’s out of focus face seemed pinched down into something deeply and troublingly sad.</p><p>“So,” Eddie said moodily, and Richie had no idea why he was bracing himself but Eddie sounded serious. “You’re in love with Stan.” </p><p>Eddie leaned forward and swiped away the last of the cool moisture on Richie’s cheek before he slid his glasses back into place. They, however, didn’t remotely clarify the words Richie played back in his head half a dozen times without understanding so he eloquently asked, “Uhhhh… what?”</p><p>“Cut the act, Richie, I know you’re in love with Stan.”</p><p>Richie, still completely at a loss, mumbled, “I’m <em>what</em>…?” </p><p>“... <em>in love with Stan</em>,” Eddie finished the sentence and yeah, okay, Richie apparently <em>hadn't </em>heard that wrong but <em>what</em>?</p><p>“I’m… not?” voice lifting half a fucking octave.</p><p>“So you aren’t <em>anymore</em>?” Eddie asked, face scrunching up.</p><p>“No I –” <em>what?</em> “- I never<em> was</em>?” Richie wished his voice would stop tilting up at the end like he was asking questions but he was just <em>so very confused</em>. “I mean I do, I love him and I miss him every day but -”</p><p>“Okay you don't have to<em> lie to me</em>, asshole. If you don't want to talk about it that's <em>fine</em>.” It didn't <em>sound</em> fine, that's for fucking sure. Nor did Eddie <em>look</em> like it was fine, his arms crossing and his whole face morphing into a sad-angry scowl.</p><p>“No seriously Eds, I swear to you I have no idea what’s going on.”</p><p>“You –” Eddie frowned, stealing a glance at the picture of Stan next to his hip, dark eyes traveling back up to Richie like they wanted to peel back his skin and see what was underneath. “I thought you had a crush on Stan. Or were, like, undyingly in love with him or something.”</p><p>And oh, look at that, Richie's stomach dropped out his ass and plummeted to the fucking core of the Earth.</p><p>“<em>No</em>,” Richie choked out, still so fucking confused. “I – Eddie, <em>no</em>.”</p><p>“No?” Eddie repeated skeptically. Richie, gripping the ever loving shit out of his own knees, tightly shook his head. Some of the tension visibly seeped out of Eddie’s shoulders, his arms uncrossing from over his chest. He let out a sigh Richie was going to agonize over <em>forever </em>and then scrunched his face back up into something argumentative but much more recognizable. “Then who the fuck were you talking about on the podcast?”</p><p>“Who was I <em>whaaaaa</em>?” Richie sing-songed, somehow forgetting how fucking close he’d come to giving himself away when he’d recorded the interview with <em>Dis/Intercourse</em>. Technically he <em>had </em>given himself away, the non-judgmental environment of three young, out, and accepting people/total fucking strangers willing to listen to him expound upon his unrequited crush too welcoming a temptation when he was fucking <em>bursting </em>with sticky sweet affection, their clearly loved apartment with three separate LGBTQ flags pinned up over the couch obviously a Safe Space. So after probably an entire half-hour of bouncing some of his Eddie material around and inflating his ego on the hosts’ laughter, Richie remembered there was a microphone <em>right fucking there</em> and flew into a blind panic.</p><p>Bailey came to his rescue, very gently reassuring him they would cut it out of the episode. And it wasn’t like Richie had listened to it – he fucking <em>hated </em>having to listen to himself – so he had no clue what Eddie was talking about and hoped his face expressed that confusion.</p><p>“You said your love wasn’t a bad thing and –” Eddie tilted his voice up into something more nasally than his normal range – clearly doing a poor imitation of Richie but fuck, a cartoon arrow tipped with a heart shot Richie right through the chest, “- ‘<em>The man I love deserves it.</em>’ Who’s the man you love?”</p><p><em>Well fuck</em>.</p><p>“Uh –”</p><p>“Do I know him?” Eddie’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Is it Ben?”</p><p>Richie couldn’t help himself. He started laughing. “No it’s not <em>Ben</em>, what is your obsession with Ben?”</p><p>“What’s <em>your </em>obsession with Ben?! Is it <em>Bill</em>?” Eddie asked, half in disbelief. Then his face dropped into something very stern. “It’s not <em>Steve</em>, is it?”</p><p>“No, it’s not Bill or Steve!” Richie cried, smothering his laughter into his hands. His life was a comedy of errors.</p><p>“So it’s Mike,” Eddie said, less a question than a statement, and the part of Richie that had thought that driving his car off a cliff along the PCH was a totally valid idea screamed at him to say, ‘<em>It’s you, asshole!</em>’</p><p>Pro: that side of him was much easier to resist when he wasn’t blackout drunk. Con: his imaginary/remembered Stan was still sternly glaring at him in the way that meant Stan was mentally cheering him on and that was much harder to ignore. He split the difference and went with good old fashion evasion.</p><p>“Eds, I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, aiming for placating, and wondering a moment later why Eddie needed to be placated (<em>‘Do I have a chance’</em> his brain echoed). But he could obsess over that later.</p><p>“Then how the fuck did you mean it?”</p><p>“I meant it like <em>if </em>I loved someone, they’d deserve it,” which wasn’t technically a lie, <em>technically</em>.</p><p>Eddie eyed him critically and Richie tried his best to keep his face in some not-guilty semblance of sincerity, pathetically relieved when Eddie relaxed, his knee bumping against Richie’s twice in a little gesture Richie was going to spend a lot of time later picking apart.</p><p>“Christ,” Eddie eventually sighed, rubbing at his own face. “I’ve been worried fucking sick thinking you’d gone and broken your stupid heart.”</p><p>And Richie was <em>so close </em>to saying, ‘<em>Only one who can do that is you</em>,’ but he reigned it in at the last minute.</p><p>Eddie was going through a messy divorce and learning how to be his own person and reshaping just about everything in his life. Richie wasn’t used to thinking of himself as stable but he knew he was the rock Eddie had chosen to stand on and throwing him into the waves by confessing his love was unfair.</p><p>So Richie could wait. He <em>would </em>wait. He wasn’t sure when would be a good time – fuck he was already thinking he might just push it back forever – but that’s what he’d done all of senior year, thinking <em>not today, not today </em>and then suddenly Eddie was waving at him out the window of a Greyhound and Richie was sobbing on the curb as the last of the bus exhaust dissipated into the August Maine air.</p><p>Admittedly Richie wasn’t sure <em>when </em>would be a good time (if ever) but he knew it wasn’t now. However, if the universe gave him <em>a sign</em> at a better time, Richie would seize it. He made that promise to himself and to Stan’s memory and to Eddie, whose dark eyes were still roving over Richie with something that gave him the most awful stirring of <em>hope</em>.</p><p>“I <em>am </em>broken hearted,” Richie said, pulling the most genuine pout he could when his blood pressure was fucking skyrocketing. “Isn’t a man or woman alive who could love me like your moth –”</p><p>Richie was cut off when his breath was knocked right out of him, 150 pounds of feral Eddie colliding with his chest to knock him sideways onto the couch and twist him into a half nelson.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Happy Holidays everyone and thanks for reading!</p><p>Find me on twitter @BadNotso</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chapter Fifteen</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: more of Myra and Sonia being controlling and homophobic, mentions of non-consensual drug use, Richie’s suicidal desire to stay behind in the cistern with Eddie's body</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Eddie studied himself in the mirror hanging on the back of his closet door, buttoning up his dress shirt for work (light blue, faintly stripped, slim fit), leaving the top three unbuttoned, shrugging his suit jacket over his shoulders and forgoing the tie like so many other men in his LA office did.</p>
<p>What a world of difference two months could make. He hardly recognized himself – except he <em>did</em> in the way that every other time he’d looked in the mirror for the last twenty-two years it felt like looking at a stranger. Now he saw who he<em> wanted</em> to be, still rough around the edges but creeping closer to someone he liked a little more.</p>
<p>His suit fit him, for one – Bev had sent it in her surprise package (one from her own collection, pulling it on felt like donning armor) and he’d gotten it fit at a tailor Bev had recommended and apparently paid off because they’d refused his money.</p>
<p>He’d be angrier about that if he didn’t look so fucking good in it. Like a different man. Like the man he was supposed to be.</p>
<p>Myra had been of the opinion that even something so innocuous as a salmon colored shirt was ‘unmanly.’ As if she could somehow convince anyone that her husband (who was two inches shorter than her and at least seventy pounds lighter) was some big tough guy so long as he avoided the color pink. She also thought it was indecent anytime he wore shorts that ended above his knees or shirts that were too fitted or basically anything that couldn't be bought at a Kohl's on clearance in a size too big. </p>
<p>In his old life, he hadn’t picked out much of his own clothes anyways. Myra at some point took that task upon herself (as so many of their problematic habits had begun, starting as simple favors and morphing into another facet of their relationship) and Eddie never had much room to <em>care </em>about how he looked or what he wore because what fucking difference did it make?</p>
<p>Smoothing his hair back, he realized now it could make a <em>lot</em> of difference, most notably in how he felt about himself.</p>
<p>Not that Eddie knew anything about being stylish (though he liked to think he was slowly figuring out his own tastes, thanks in part to furnishing an entire house). Bev’s package helped him branch out from things he would have never imagined picking out and she didn’t seem to mind guiding him as he experimented with what he liked and what he didn’t, building on top of the things he asked her opinion about instead of shooting them down.</p>
<p>And if<em> Bev</em> was recommending stuff, it probably meant it was fashionable, right? That was her job after all. Plus she seemed much more concerned with him enjoying his clothes regardless of whether they were trendy and choosing things solely based on what <em>he </em>liked, what <em>he </em>wanted, was still so fucking novel.</p>
<p>But besides that, it was liberating to be out in the world with Richie and see a retro <em>Jem</em> graphic tee and be <em>encouraged</em> to buy it instead of tutted at disdainfully, even if the damn thing was pink. And Richie had no complaints about his short-shorts. If the looks he kept cutting Eddie's legs meant what Eddie thought they meant, Richie actually <em>really</em> liked his short-shorts, so much his pupils blew out and his attention stayed <em>locked</em> on Eddie in a way no one else had ever looked at him before, magnified eyes following him like a laser while he fished the leaves out of the pool or stretched before a run. </p>
<p>And if Eddie enjoyed the attention, so fucking sue him. He’d never been on the receiving end of those sorts of looks before, and it being <em>Richie</em> made them even better. ‘<em>Yeah, look at me asshole</em>,’ he’d think to himself, propping a foot up to tie his shoelaces, feeling Richie’s gaze drag over his skin. ‘<em>Keep on fucking looking</em>.’</p>
<p>Eddie’s cheek still bore a thin pink line and probably would for the rest of his life even though his doctor was sure it would fade a little with time. Eddie was still faintly shocked to find he didn’t hate it. He saw people looking sometimes, during meetings or while he stood in line at the grocery store, and that same part of him would think, ‘<em>That’s right, look</em>,’ because it was a mark of his own bravery, the slight raised line under his fingertips always present when he needed a reminder.</p>
<p>Even outside the scar, his whole face looked different sometimes, his own expression catching him unawares particularly when he was walking down a busy street after eating lunch with Richie and Bill and he’d steal a glance at himself in the reflection of a window. He looked happier. And healthier. Which was wild because Richie talked him into eating all sorts of (admittedly delicious) garbage and so much of his programing said he’d <em>die </em>if he ate too much cheese or bread or sugar. But he couldn’t deny his skin had better color and the dark circles under his eyes were much less pronounced and okay, yeah, sometimes he’d take a weird shit after smoking a joint with Richie and Bill and splitting a pint of ice cream but so what? He could be the kind of guy who smoked weed recreationally and ate junk food with his friends and didn’t categorize every bowel movement. Somehow that was more important than a blip on the radar of his intestinal health.</p>
<p>With two days left before Beverly came to stay with them, Eddie’s brain was on overdrive, listing and relisting all the things they needed to do before she showed up. Richie had taken on the brunt of the labor with shockingly few complaints on the days Eddie had to go to the office and Bill (who Richie pointed out had taken to spending more time with them than at his own home) was a surprisingly amenable (though hilariously unskilled) helping hand. The house was coming together. <em>Their </em>house was coming together.</p>
<p>Eddie tucked Richie’s broken glasses (which had been sitting on his nightstand like they did <em>every </em>night) into the breast pocket of his suit, completely out of habit, the motion so practiced he didn’t spare it a passing thought.</p>
<p>By the time Eddie left his room, Richie’s door was open displaying his bizarrely yet unpacked room, dressed mattress sitting directly on the floor, stacks of clean clothes still heaped in his laundry basket. Even Bill’s crash pad room (which he used at least once a week, often times more) had more furniture than Richie’s room. Every time Eddie brought up the idea of doing something with his own space, Richie would shrug it off, seemingly more concerned with taking care of the rest of the house first. Eddie suspected there was something going on there but he wasn’t sure what and Richie, as usual, either didn’t know his own head or didn’t feel like sharing yet.</p>
<p>Annoying.</p>
<p>Richie also steadfastly refused to let Eddie take down the weird bird print wallpaper in his bedroom even though, supposedly, he wasn’t in love with Stan. Eddie wasn’t sure he bought that excuse 100% (why the fuck else would anyone tolerate the absolute insanity that was the foresty bird-infested scene that wallpaper portrayed?) but he was pretty sure Richie wouldn’t outright lie to him. His strategy had always been <em>avoiding </em>the truth.</p>
<p>He found Richie in the kitchen nursing a cup of coffee, his glasses pushed up to his forehead, eyes closed and darkly circled. The usual stab of worry hit Eddie in the guts – he knew Richie napped most days, often times out in the hammock, but that was a new habit, one he hadn’t taken up until they moved into the house. Richie claimed it was because of all the physical labor he was clearly new to but again, Eddie suspected there was something going on that Richie wasn’t telling him.</p>
<p><em>Super </em>annoying.</p>
<p>Richie must have heard Eddie approach because his mouth twisted up into a smile before he opened his eyes. “Mornin’ Spaghetti, off to the grind?” he said, lowering his glasses, squinting his eyes open, and promptly dropping his coffee cup to the counter with a heavy clunk, steaming liquid splashing over the rim. “<em>What</em>?!” Richie choked out, his voice strangled, hand still outstretched and covered in hot coffee.</p>
<p>“Idiot, that’ll burn!” Eddie said, throwing a dishcloth towards Richie who didn’t move to catch it. Luckily it landed on his upraised hand anyways.</p>
<p>“<em>What</em> is that <em>suit</em>?!” Richie said, eyes saucer wide, and okay, Eddie wasn’t thrilled Richie had <em>spilled burning coffee </em>over himself at the sight of Eddie but maybe he was just a <em>little</em> bit smug about it.</p>
<p>“Bev’s,” Eddie explained with a single word, padding around the island to wipe the coffee off Richie’s hand himself since the idiot hadn’t moved a muscle except to swivel his head, tracking Eddie with his eyes. His fingers were a little pink where the coffee had spilled but he didn’t bitch about Eddie’s rough wipe down so it must not hurt too bad. When Richie was quiet too long, Eddie added, “Just got it back from the tailor.”</p>
<p>“<em>Fuck</em>,” Richie breathed, his adam’s apple bobbing. “I’m feeling <em>awfully </em>underdressed for breakfast with you standing around in that thing.”</p>
<p>In a threadbare <em>Golden Girls </em>t-shirt and smiling hotdog printed boxer briefs, Richie was underdressed for <em>most </em>things. But Eddie wasn’t about to complain. Richie looked big and comfortable and like <em>home</em>. It made Eddie want to cram them both under the throw blanket on the couch and watch a <em>Terminator </em>marathon instead of drive thirty minutes to the office and sit in a boring meeting with a new client.</p>
<p>“What, you’d rather I go to work in my underwear?” Eddie threw over his shoulder, feeling the weight of Richie’s eyes still on him and hiding his smirk inside the fridge.</p>
<p>“That’s one way to get a raise.”</p>
<p>A snort burbled out of Eddie unbidden. “That’s one way to get <em>fired</em>, asshole. You gonna finish -”</p>
<p>“- painting the office today? Yup,” Richie finished amenably, still staring a little stupidly at Eddie who poured coffee into a travel mug and stood a little straighter under Richie’s gaze. “Don’t people normally wear ties with a suit?”</p>
<p>Eddie raised one eyebrow. “It’s not a <em>law</em>.” After a lengthy pause where in Eddie <em>heard </em>Richie swallow, he asked, “Why, do I look fucking stupid or something?”</p>
<p>“<em>No</em>!” Richie practically squeaked. He cleared his throat and tried again, eyes rolling up to the ceiling. “No. But… ties are nice.”</p>
<p>“I saw your fucking closet, dude. You don’t own <em>a single </em>tie. How does a forty year old man not own one fucking tie?”</p>
<p>“I wasn’t talking about <em>me</em>,” Richie clarified, topping off his cup and pointedly not making eye contact. “And I don’t know, they always wind up lost or ruined or, like, on fire.”</p>
<p>Eddie pinched the skin between his eyes. “On <em>fire </em>– no, I don’t want to know.”</p>
<p>Mildly asking himself what the fuck he was doing, Eddie wandered back to his room and picked out a tie, a dark, textured maroon, sliding it around his neck and absently knotting it at his throat. He’d worn a tie for the vast majority of his working life. It was second nature at this point to twist the satin into a Windsor knot and forgoing the tie had been a small rebellion directed toward the previous him who had been so fucking lame.</p>
<p>But the thrill of watching Richie’s cheeks darken when he strode back into the kitchen tucking the back tail in between the buttons of his shirt was <em>much </em>more rewarding and bizarrely re-contextualized the last twenty years of his life. Maybe Richie wouldn’t have hated office Eddie if he’d run into him somewhere on the streets of New York. Maybe he’d have <em>liked </em>office Eddie. Maybe he’d look at him with the same burning gaze he was staring at Eddie with now.</p>
<p>“If Bill comes over, don’t let him lay down the tape,” Eddie reminded him, still smirking while Richie’s eyes lingered on him with something dark – something Eddie really liked. Fuck, no one looked at him like Richie did.</p>
<p>“You got it, babe,” Richie said and Eddie hated how much that word – that nickname – <em>babe</em> – reverberated around his head like a gong.</p>
<p>“And wear a fucking sweater if you take a nap on the hammock,” Eddie said. “It’s finally starting to cool down and your shoulder will get all stiff.” Abruptly, Eddie wanted to bludgeon himself for sounding so much like his mother but Richie only smiled, something soft and endeared, and Eddie remembered that even if getting babied made <em>his own</em> hackles rise, Richie had spent his childhood practically alone and un-looked after.</p>
<p>“Sure thing, Eds,” Richie hummed warmly. “Come here.”</p>
<p>Eddie stepped into Richie’s uplifted arms expecting a hug – but instead Richie ran his hands over his shoulders and pseudo-straightened the knot of Eddie’s tie even though Eddie knew it didn’t need it. The places Richie’s hands trailed over burned and sparked like electricity had danced over his skin despite the fabric separating him from Richie’s touch.</p>
<p>Then Richie spun him around to face the garage door, hands on his shoulders giving him a gentle shove. “Alright, go get ‘em, tiger,” Richie said, and Eddie was irrationally annoyed that Richie hadn’t pulled him in for a hug before pushing him away, even though he could have sworn he heard Richie mutter, “<em>Bev is trying to </em>kill <em>me</em>,” as the door snapped shut behind him.</p>
<p>Just to spite him, Eddie took the Mustang to the office (though he took the Mustang to the office <em>most </em>days and Richie had never once complained).</p>
<p>Richie was… a difficult person to understand. Eddie hadn’t thought that when he was a kid – back then he’d been sure Richie was exactly what he appeared to be on the surface; crude, abrasive, obtuse. Always popping off bad jokes at exactly the wrong time and scrunching up his nose in that stupid grimace of confusion anytime someone said something too real. He was never good at hiding when he was hurt or upset and he couldn’t keep his mouth shut to save his life.</p>
<p>But that same loudmouthed kid had hidden that he was gay since the age of <em>nine</em>. His poorly timed jokes were obviously some defense mechanism protecting him from sincerity and he had a gentle thoughtfulness Eddie hadn’t thought much of when he was young even though it was always Richie sharing his lunch with him when his mom put him on a strict diet during his growth spurt and he was perpetually hungry. Actually, the examples of Richie’s kindness were endless; he snuck Eddie into the theater during his shifts so he could escape the summer heat and he spotted Eddie the registration fee to take the SATs because Eddie’s mom refused to cough up the money and that was just the tip of the iceberg.</p>
<p>But – and it was entirely possible Eddie was losing his mind, some delayed symptom of PTSD – but he was pretty sure Richie might be… <em>attracted to him</em>? Even in his head he couldn’t formulate that without the question mark. Because Richie definitely <em>looked </em>at him plenty and sometimes their banter veered into something almost… flirtatious…</p>
<p>Not that Eddie was the expert on flirting, jesus fucking christ.</p>
<p>Besides, Richie was kind of just… like that. He’d <em>always </em>been like that. ‘Tease Eddie Relentlessly’ was his longest running bit and even though he didn’t hang off Bill the same way, he did compliment him more than a guy two inches shorter than Eddie strictly deserved.</p>
<p>Overall, a lot of signals were getting crossed in Eddie’s brain or, more notably, his <em>dick</em> which wanted <em>something </em>from Richie, Eddie just couldn’t figure out what.</p>
<p>It had something to do with the unapologetic way he wandered around in the morning in nothing but his underwear and a t-shirt. Or the way his arms flexed when he did the doctor appointed stretches for his shoulder. And the way he laughed, eyes crinkling unevenly as he did that god awful braying cackle that never failed to zap like sparks down Eddie’s spine.</p>
<p>“You’re attracted to him,” Eddie’s therapist oh-so-concisely surmised when Eddie tried to explain his low boiling but constant aggravation.</p>
<p>“No shit,” Eddie had snapped back brutally and then haltingly apologized, the rest of his appointment spent discussing the root of Eddie’s penchant for lashing out (big surprise to no one: it was his mother).</p>
<p>But he didn’t need his <em>therapist</em> to tell him Richie was attractive. Eddie had eyes and ears and a nose and a functioning sense of humor. And despite the fact the idiot looked like he should be selling meth on the seedy end of Sesame Street (especially as his hair grew out unchecked), he was… handsome? When he smiled and when he laughed and when he pulled exaggerated faces to make Eddie chuckle. Even more so when he got teary or sincere or watched Eddie with that weird unreadable expression on his face that Eddie remembered from their childhood, though it had a sadder edge to it now his face had the right frown lines for it.</p>
<p>And, with a little introspective thinking, Eddie realized this… attraction… wasn’t entirely new. When they’d parted ways at eighteen, Eddie had been in some ways behind developmentally, his sexual thoughts seemingly less prevalent or frequent than his peers. His therapist said it had to do with his home life - with the innate sense of danger that licked at his heels in his mother’s presence. He didn’t have the mental space for hormones when he was anxious about his mother trying to pull him out of school permanently because of a recent bout of mono or carefully (and surreptitiously) supervising her while she cooked dinner because he was pretty sure she spiked something with a sleeping pill the night he was supposed to go watch Richie perform in the school play.</p>
<p>But even with all that bullshit, Eddie had always been <em>looking </em>at Richie more than anyone else. </p>
<p>It probably didn’t help that Richie was directly tied to the part of his brain that released serotonin and like a mouse with a pleasure trigger, he’d gravitate to Richie’s orbit for his next fix.</p>
<p>That proved itself true countless times over the course of Eddie’s day. The laugh that burbled out of him when Richie sent a picture of the fully painted office and Bill’s bare foot fully dusky green from apparently stepping into the paint tray. The offhand comment from a coworker during a meeting about one of Richie’s latest tweets (a photo of Eddie scowling as he tried to cram the absolutely massive turkey Richie had picked out for Thanksgiving into their freezer, ‘<em>Spaghetti pictured for size</em>’ the caption read). Eddie even spent half his lunch hour on his own twitter, the one he’d started just to pick fights with the homophobes who still couldn’t leave Richie the fuck alone – an activity that made him mad but in the same way that driving kind of made him mad but still functioned as a relatively safe way to work out some of his aggression.</p>
<p>The effect was even more poignant once he got home and Richie greeted him at the door, excited to show off the office which he’d cleaned of all remaining painting supplies, hovering in the doorway like a little kid waiting for praise, preening when Eddie gave it to him. The casual touches they shared as Richie helped him make tacos for dinner (<em>taught </em>him how to make tacos for dinner – he didn’t want to fall into the same traps as he had in his relationship with Myra and that included some self-sufficiency). The warm press of Richie’s thigh against his while they sat on the couch and took turns playing <em>Donkey Kong Country</em>. The way they brushed their teeth together in the bathroom off the living room because Eddie’s wasn’t quite done being renovated, elbowing each other and fighting over the sink.</p>
<p>And if the best part of Eddie’s day was the possibility that Richie would press a kiss to his temple when they split at their bedroom doors, <em>so what</em>? It wasn’t like he spent all day wondering if Richie would pull him into that half hug, the ritualistic, “<em>’night Eds</em>,” a soft heat against his hairline. It wasn’t like he picked apart the events of every night, trying to figure out what part of the evening cut the difference between a friendly back pat or hair ruffle and a goodnight kiss.</p>
<p>Because it would be <em>weird </em>if Eddie did that. So he didn’t. Much. He only leaned into Richie’s space, humming appreciatively when that night turned out to be one of <em>the </em>nights and he felt Richie’s chapped lips against his skin like a blessing before he turned down the covers of his ridiculously big bed and slid into sleep.</p>
<p> </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Eddie’s phone trilled him awake in the middle of the night.</p>
<p>He only answered because he was half asleep and mid-dream and still unused to his new bedroom so that he blearily thought for a second he was waking up in a hotel, one of his co-workers calling to tell him he’d slept in and he needed to get his ass to whatever bullshit conference he was sent on because everyone breathed easier when he was out of the office. The phone number on his screen was unlisted which, awake, would have given him pause, but still mostly asleep, he pressed ‘accept call’ and dragged the phone closer to his ear.</p>
<p>“‘<em>ello</em>?” he croaked sleepily, mostly into his pillow.</p>
<p>A little breathless gasp greeted him followed by an incredulous, hopeful, “<em>Eddie</em>?”</p>
<p>It was Myra. <em>Of course </em>it was Myra. Eddie valiantly fought the urge to swear.</p>
<p>“Eddie, is that you? Are you there?”</p>
<p>Eddie’s sigh morphed into a groan somewhere in the middle. “Myra, it's the middle of the night. You shouldn’t be calling.”</p>
<p>“Eddie, I just don’t <em>understand</em>,” she moaned and Eddie pulled the phone away from his cheek to check the time. 3:37 am. It was morning in New York, early for sure, but definitely within the frame of an acceptable time to be awake. Was it an acceptable time to call the man trying to divorce you who was in a time zone three hours behind? Hell-the-fuck-no.</p>
<p>“Myra,” Eddie said, sitting up and rubbing at his eyes. “I've told you via email: I'll only speak to you through our lawyers.”</p>
<p>“What <em>happened </em>Eddie? You used to love me. You used to be <em>happy</em> with me. What changed?”</p>
<p>“I did, Myra.”</p>
<p>She had asked him the same question multiple times during the one long, circling call he'd made to her since telling her he wanted a divorce and his answer never varied.</p>
<p>There was a long silence on the other end of the phone and Eddie rubbed his eyes, wondering exactly how much patience he owed her. He wasn’t the only victim of their toxic relationship – he’d been just as bad for her as she was for him.</p>
<p>“You went away on that trip,” Myra said quietly, and this was a diversion from her previous script. Last time she wailed and said, ‘<em>No, Eddie, you haven't changed, you're still my darling Eddie-bear, don't you know? Come home, come home and I’ll forgive everything.</em>’ </p>
<p>Eddie hadn’t liked the other conversation more but repetition had its own comfort. </p>
<p>“You went away on that trip with <em>those</em> <em>people</em>.” </p>
<p>Maybe it was the way the room was still barren from the recent move or the way the dark robbed it of any solid roots in time and space or maybe it was the last clinging tendrils of whatever dream he’d just been having that felt more like a memory but suddenly Eddie was ten years old again, his mother's voice in his ear as she tucked him in while he was sick with the flu. ‘<em>They made you sick, Eddie-bear</em>,’ she chided him, wrapping him up so tight in a blanket he started to sweat. ‘<em>Those horrible children made you sick</em>.’</p>
<p>“They <em>did</em> something to you, Eddie.” Myra said and Eddie blinked, struggling to separate the past from what was happening in the present. “I know they did. You wouldn’t do this if you were yourself, Eddie-bear.”</p>
<p>“They’re my friends,” Eddie answered simply, feeling so small and so weak, and how did he get the flu anyways? No one else had it, he was the only one out sick from school and it was nearly summer. After the third day of missed school, Eddie had snuck downstairs while his mom showered to call Richie who told him he’d tried to bring over a card the class had made but his mom had sent him away. Eddie hadn’t even heard the doorbell ring. All his conscious moments boiled down to accepting pills from his mother, swallowing them dutifully, and then getting dizzy and falling asleep in her lap on the living room couch. </p>
<p>“<em>That man</em> did something to you, didn’t he Eddie,” Myra whispered fearfully into Eddie's ear and in his memory, his mother murmured, ‘<em>That </em>dirty boy<em> got you sick.</em>’ “Is he - Eddie, is he <em>doing</em> <em>things</em> to you?”</p>
<p>That snapped him out of his stupor better than a slap across the face. “<em>No</em>, Myra! Richie isn’t fucking -” he couldn’t even say it. Wouldn’t give the thought substance. Because it was <em>absurd</em>. </p>
<p>“He’s been in the <em>news</em>, Eddie. Do you know - did he tell you that he’s -”</p>
<p>“<em>Don’t you fucking say it.</em> Don’t put it next to that fucking <em>accusation</em>.”</p>
<p>“<em>But Eddie</em> -”</p>
<p>“No. I can’t even -” Eddie screamed briefly into his pillow. “We’re done, Myra. Never call this number again.”</p>
<p>And Eddie hung up, fingers shaking as he navigated blocking the new contact before she could try calling him back. He slapped his phone back on the nightstand with maybe a little too much force and grabbed Richie’s broken glasses off his bedside table, fingers running over the web of cracks. For a long while, he sat panting furiously in the center of his bed, turning the plastic frames over and over and over.</p>
<p>How <em>could</em> she? Never before had he imagined Myra might be<em> bigoted </em>but he had, at some point, drifted into the habit of mentally back stepping when she started in on a rant about whatever had become her new agenda. And the way she tried to accuse Richie of being a fucking<em> sexual deviant</em> just because he was <em>gay</em> - Richie, who was always so careful to ask for Eddie’s opinions and feelings, tripping over himself to do whatever Eddie asked, so happy to meet Eddie's ridiculous requests.</p>
<p>Eddie’s heart suddenly went out to Richie. Not just the one sleeping in the room next to his but the Richie who was 10 and 16 and 20 and 30 - the ones who thought they had to hide who they loved because the world would try to warp it into something else. Because even though there were people who would accept him, the world was also full of people who had smashed his head into lockers for wearing a floral shirt or accused him of crimes he didn't commit.</p>
<p>Feeling like he'd just ran a mile for how hard his heart was pounding, Eddie shoved himself out of bed, tucked Richie’s glasses into the pocket of his sleep pants, and padded into the kitchen for a glass of water. The dark of the apartment was oddly comforting - there were no space-clowns hidden in the corners, only a few lingering stacks of yet-unpacked boxes. Richie wouldn’t wake up in a panic if he heard Eddie wandering around and come out to reprimand him or usher him back into bed. If anything, Richie might duck out of his room and ask if Eddie had been having nightmares, if he wanted to split a grilled cheese, if he wanted to watch some stupid cartoon until he was sleepy again and they both passed out on the couch.</p>
<p>This was Eddie's space now and he felt an ownership of it he never had in the townhouse he and Myra shared.</p>
<p>Which was maybe a little unfair. Myra wasn’t a <em>villain</em>. Or if she was, he had played a part in making her so. She had always been pushy and overbearing but <em>he </em>was the one who so easily conceded to her every whim. And the more he shifted his boundaries back, the more she pressed in and took took took.</p>
<p>Eddie was doing his best to work through that with his therapist. Setting boundaries. Maintaining them. It was easier living with Richie who (despite how much Eddie kind of loathed it) never pressed him on his decisions, letting Eddie have anything he wanted with a neutrality Eddie was fairly sure wasn’t fake. He’d be more worried he was simply trading places – becoming his mother, becoming <em>Myra</em> – but he kept an eye out for Richie’s preferences, painfully delighted by the surprise and joy Richie radiated when Eddie got something right, like buying the ridiculous yellow sofa he’d mooned over without saying anything or ordering from his favorite Thai restaurant after a bad day of writing.</p>
<p>It made Eddie feel a little more human, a little less like the sleepwalker he used to be. He was <em>learning</em>. He was growing. And the change came with effort but it was work Eddie was willing to put in.</p>
<p>Eddie drank a glass of water at the sink and filled it up again before he heard a sharp, quick shout - so fast it was over before it started and he was left a moment asking himself if he'd imagined the noise. Then a light clicked on down the hall, a soft yellow slat cutting out from Richie's cracked open door.</p>
<p>Quietly, Eddie padded towards the light, realizing on the way that he could hear Richie panting and gasping for breath. Suddenly terrified, Eddie shoved the door open and burst into the room, half convinced he’d find Richie in the throes of a heart attack or a break-in or fucking <em>something</em>. Instead, Richie lurched in surprise, his cheeks shiny with tears, throwing his phone at Eddie in a harsh, uncoordinated jerk so it hit the ground in front of Eddie’s feet.</p>
<p>“<em>Fucking shit!</em>” Richie cried, his voice reedy and wrecked, hand scrambling for his glasses on the floor next to his mattress and accidentally knocking them further out of reach.</p>
<p>“It’s just me!” Eddie called back, heart racing, lifting his palms placatingly. “Richie, it’s just me!”</p>
<p>“<em>Eds</em>?” Richie said, throat cracking, before he collapsed against the mattress. “<em>Fuck</em>.”</p>
<p>“It’s just me,” Eddie said again, a little non-sensically. He hadn’t seen Richie so scared since the hospital (though Eddie still had dreams about Richie screaming his name from a faraway hospital room and running slow as molasses through winding hallways, never finding him). He ducked to pick up Richie’s glasses and the phone he’d literally hucked across the room.</p>
<p>The screen was mercifully uncracked (thanks to the thick Otter case Eddie had bullied him into getting after the <em>third </em>time Richie dropped his phone from the top of a ladder) and it displayed a picture of Eddie and Bill, one taken a few days earlier and sent to the group chat, Eddie scowling over the lip of a beer bottle and Bill lifting a ridiculously messy pub burger to his smiling, open mouth.</p>
<p>The mattress dipped under Eddie’s weight and he grabbed Richie’s hand, pulling it away from where it had been covering his face to press his glasses into his palm. Eyes still closed, Richie unfolded them and slid them onto his face, squinting at Eddie once they were in place and audibly letting out a sigh of relief.</p>
<p>“Nightmare?” Eddie asked, feeling stupid.</p>
<p>“Same old, same old.”</p>
<p>Eddie frowned. “It’s always the same one?” Eddie’s tended to cycle between a few. Richie lost in a maze-like hospital. His mother melting into the clown melting into Myra melting into the leper. The Losers all hovering limp in the air while Eddie scrambled to find the fence post that would free them. His childhood home with nothing but solid walls where there should be windows and doors. Richie floating floating floating until he disappeared into darkness.</p>
<p>Richie, distractedly still scrubbing at his face, hummed an affirmative noise. “Fucking Deadlights,” he said with a grumble.</p>
<p>Eddie glanced down at the dimming phone in his hands - his own face, Bill’s smile. “What did you see?” Eddie asked, terrified of the answer and feeling like a real piece of shit friend for never having encouraged Richie to talk about it before. But Eddie wasn’t sure he wanted to know – like a light that was too bright, the awareness of Bev’s shaky confession in the Derry Townhouse never stopped even though he couldn’t bear to look directly at it.</p>
<p>Richie stilled minutely before he huffed out a little laugh, straining to smile at Eddie when he said, “Nothing. Don’t worry about it Spaghetti.”</p>
<p>Eddie glowered. “It obviously wasn’t <em>nothing</em>, Rich, it still wakes you up screaming. Come on, tell me. I can handle it.”</p>
<p>“Oh for sure,” Richie said amenably, reaching out for his phone which Eddie pulled away in the most inappropriately timed game of Keep Away in human history. “You could handle it. <em>I</em> fucking can’t.” There was no room to doubt his sincerity with the way his voice cracked in the middle of the ‘<em>I</em>’ with a noise like a strangled sob.</p>
<p>“You’ll feel better if you talk it out,” Eddie insisted, reiterating what Richie always told him when he was working himself up to an anxiety attack. “Have you told your therapist about it?”</p>
<p>“Kind of,” Richie said with a shrug, sitting up and pressing his back against the wall. “But, you know, she thinks they’re dreams and not, like, <em>visions</em> and that tidbit makes them hit a little different, you know?”</p>
<p>“Did you see what Bev saw?” Eddie asked, deciding to just throw that out there, suddenly desperate to know, hating how often Richie <em>kept things </em>from him. “Did you see everyone die?”</p>
<p>Richie swallowed heavily, his throat bobbing, eyes turned up to the ceiling again when he answered, “Not everyone.”</p>
<p>“Me,” Eddie said. Not a question. He’d suspected – that’s why he’d never asked, he was so fucking fragile sometimes he wasn’t sure how he’d react if he heard the words out loud – but watching a fresh stream of tears slide down Richie’s cheeks made him hate himself for making Richie cope so long with that alone.</p>
<p>Slwoly, Eddie slid a hand over the sheets gripping Richie’s like a lifeline, Richie squeezing back tightly.</p>
<p>“So,” Eddie said, petulant anger in his voice. “What does me in, Rich? A car crash? Heart disease? Prostate cancer?”</p>
<p>As a risk analyst, he was well aware those were his top contenders and therefore he made choices to lessen the likelihood that he’d die a premature death. In theory, if Richie had seen a realistic version of the future, they could take further steps to protect him from unnecessary pain.</p>
<p>“No.” Richie shook his head. Then, seemingly realizing the direction of Eddie’s thoughts, he scooted forward and made eye contact. “<em>No</em>, Eds, nothing like that. It was the clown.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” Eddie said, mulling that over. “But the clown’s dead.”</p>
<p>“Thank <em>fuck</em>.”</p>
<p>Eddie blinked. “Rich, the clown’s dead and <em>I’m not</em>.”</p>
<p>“No,” Richie hummed, his eyes trailing down to Eddie’s chest, his hand squeezing Eddie’s hand so hard his bones creaked but he didn’t shake him off. “You’re not.”</p>
<p>Baffled, Eddie insisted, “Tell me about the dream, Richie,” scooting close to Richie’s side and laying his other hand on the hard tented lump that was Richie’s knee. “I was there – I actually fucking know It in the flesh – so <em>technically </em>I’m more of an expert on the subject matter than your therapist.”</p>
<p>A faint smile touched Richie’s eyes instead of his mouth and he dared one soft look up his eyelashes before he shoved his hair back with his free hand and huffed out a deep breath.</p>
<p>“It starts on a stage.”</p>
<p>That hadn’t been what Eddie was expecting and his mouth said, “God, you’re an attention whore even when you’re asleep,” before his brain caught up with it.</p>
<p>But it startled a little laugh out of Richie, a <em>real </em>laugh, the hard set of his shoulders settling into something a little more relaxed, warmth on his face like fondness as his eyes passed over Eddie’s features.</p>
<p>“Don’t act like you’re surprised. Now do you want to hear about my dream or not?”</p>
<p>“Sorry, sorry keep going.”</p>
<p>“It starts like the stress dreams I used to get when I was on tour: I’m on stage and I’m doing my standup but I forget the next joke so I fumble. Try to recover, ad lib something, pick up the next line. But I can’t, I’ve forgotten everything.” Richie swallowed heavily, the click of his dry throat unnaturally loud. “And I’m floundering, man, just fucking <em>baking </em>under the stage lights and when I look up into them, they aren’t stage lights anymore, they’re the Deadlights, and… I’m gone.” Richie’s voice cracked and he cleared his throat. “Floating. A million years or a second – they’re the same fucking thing up there – but I’m gone.”</p>
<p>Eddie remembered that part just fine without the reminder, thanks. When Richie went limp and quiet and Eddie was struck <em>hard </em>with the realization that Richie’s body had only ever been a vessel for what made Richie <em>Richie</em>. And like snipping a thread, he <em>wasn’t there anymore</em> – maybe he was never coming back – and all Eddie could think was ‘<em>fuck no, I just found him again, give him back</em>.’</p>
<p>“When I hit the ground and snap out of it, I’m back in the cave.”</p>
<p>Eddie made a little noise, a little scared noise he wasn’t proud of at all, but Richie was paper white and sweating, the hair at his temples slick with sweat, eyes far away and terrified, and his visceral fear was contagious. They didn’t talk about it much – what happened in the cistern, not the first time nor the second. Leaving it behind kept it small, a creeping vine that tangled up in Eddie’s thoughts instead of a beanstalk that reached for the sky.</p>
<p>Now Eddie wondered if that was a mistake.</p>
<p>When Richie started speaking again, it was in a whisper. “It’s like it’s <em>real</em>, Eds. Like I’m there again. You’re crouching over me and I <em>know </em>what’s coming but I can’t fucking move. <em>I can’t move, Eddie</em>.” Richie sounded like he was pleading, like he was a little boy again, accidentally knocking over Eddie’s Lincoln Log fort and absolutely wrecked over it. “<em>And you</em> –”</p>
<p>Richie started crying, a flood of tears streaming down his cheeks, and Eddie scooted forward to cradle Richie’s face between his hands, thumbs trying to stem the flow, the force of Richie’s grief unbearable. God, Eddie wanted to cry too – Richie was fucking <em>devastated </em>and it hurt to look at.</p>
<p>Richie grabbed Eddie’s elbows so tight Eddie suspected there would be the imprint of his grip bruised onto his skin in the morning and his eyes were wild when they meet Eddie’s. “I’m –” Richie gasped in a short little breath like a hiccup, “I’m not there when you die, Eds. I leave you alone. I <em>leave you alone</em> to kill the fucking clown – like that <em>matters </em>when you’re – <em>when you’re</em> –” Richie sucked in a rattling breath that struck hard in the place where Eddie’s panic lived. Moving on instinct alone, Eddie pulled Richie towards him and pressed his lips to Richie’s hairline in a hard brand.</p>
<p>“<em>We leave you there</em>,” Richie whispered horrified, leaning closer to smash his face to Eddie’s chest, arms wrapping around him, his fingers scrabbling in the back of Eddie’s t-shirt. “<em>God, I’m so sorry Eddie, I’m so sorry, I didn’t want to, I would have stayed, I didn’t want to leave you down there alone</em>.”</p>
<p>Richie absolutely falling to pieces in his arms was <em>a lot </em>to process – he hadn’t even cried this hard over Stan in the hospital – and the little broken noises Eddie had <em>never </em>heard Richie make before were actively ripping his sanity to shreds, pricking tears into his own eyes.</p>
<p>“<em>I should have stayed</em>,” Richie mumbled again against Eddie’s sternum, his glasses digging into Eddie’s pec, and the delayed jolt of understanding bashed Eddie out of his own stupor.</p>
<p>“St-<em>stayed</em>?! In that collapsing cave? And fucking <em>died</em>?!” Eddie screeched, surprised by how shrill he was in the quiet darkness of the night. He grabbed Richie by his ears and tugged him away from his chest so he could glower down at him properly. “Are you in-<em>fucking</em>-sane?!”</p>
<p>“<em>Ow</em>,” Richie said around a sniffle, face still pathetically sad and wet and snotty. Eddie loosened his grip on Richie’s ears, fingers automatically soothing over the mistreated skin.</p>
<p>“Why would you fucking – what good would that do, Rich? <em>What fucking good</em>?!” And Eddie wasn’t totally sure why he was so angry except that anger was easier to deal with than the confusing soup of horrified-anxious-inconsolable that was bubbling in his chest like a time bomb.</p>
<p>Richie seemed stupidly baffled by the question.</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t want you down there with me!” Eddie clarified because Richie was blank as a fucking board.</p>
<p>Richie wiped his nose along the entire length of his forearm, frowning. “Well,” Richie said, and even though he was stuffy with snot, he had a combative edge to his voice that loosened the wire around Eddie’s lungs. “Do you ever think about what <em>I </em>want?!”</p>
<p>“You want to <em>die </em>in a fucking sewer, asshole? Buried alive where that fucking <em>thing </em>lived?”</p>
<p>“If that’s where <em>you </em>are, fuck yes.”</p>
<p>Eddie’s breath literally caught in his throat. Richie was looking at him (always <em>looking </em>at him – no one ever looked at Eddie like Richie did), red eyes huge behind his thick lenses, and Eddie had never been so sure of someone’s sincerity in his entire fucking life.</p>
<p>Richie’s gaze traced Eddie’s face, darting between his eyes, dropping to the scar on his cheek, lower to Eddie’s mouth, lips parting under the shock of being watched.</p>
<p>And something in Eddie whispered <em>kiss him</em>.</p>
<p>But that was weird, right? Kissing your best friend on the lips was <em>weird</em>.</p>
<p>(<em>Richie had kissed </em>Ben<em> on the lips</em> Eddie’s brain annoyingly reminded him, goading him on. <em>Richie probably wouldn’t mind</em>…)</p>
<p>But Richie’s face was also covered in snot and tears and maybe this moment, the one where Richie just admitted he’d rather <em>die in a pit </em>than leave Eddie’s corpse behind, wasn’t the right one for Eddie to selfishly act on a half-baked whim when there were some things he <em>really </em>needed to clear up with Richie.</p>
<p>So instead of closing the small bit of space between them and pressing his mouth to Richie’s lips (thin but very pink and <em>inviting</em>) he grabbed the collar of Richie’s shirt and tugged it up, scrubbing at Richie’s face, wiping away all the various fluids, unreasonably tickled by the soft, furry stomach that peeked out the bottom of Richie’s shirt. Richie squawked indignantly but didn’t put up too much of a struggle.</p>
<p>When he was done, when Richie’s face was dry and splotchy and red and his glasses were straightened back in place, Richie blinked balefully at him. Infuriatingly, that stupid part of Eddie <em>still </em>wanted to lean forward and kiss Richie’s lips but instead he breathed a long sigh and said, “What am I gonna do with you, Rich?”</p>
<p>Richie, <em>painfully </em>genuine and obviously trying to hide it, easily answered, “Anything you want, Eds.” And maybe he meant for it to sound casual, flippant even, but the undercurrent was laced with so much honesty (and <em>no one </em>had ever let Eddie do whatever he wanted) that sparks lit up along the line of Eddie’s spine.</p>
<p>“Okay, come on,” Eddie said, heaving himself up and holding out his hand. Richie blinked at it confusedly for a long moment before he tucked his bigger hand into Eddie’s palm and Eddie leaned back, using his weight to haul Richie up to his feet. “I didn’t get a bed the size of Pangea for nothing.”</p>
<p>Richie opened his mouth but only a stuttering mumble came out as Eddie tugged him through the hall and into the master bedroom, into <em>his </em>bedroom, the sound of Richie’s staggering footsteps behind him and the heat of his grip a strange relief.</p>
<p>“In,” Eddie ordered, dropping Richie’s hand to shove him towards the bed, the wide-eyed look of shock Richie cast over his shoulder somehow both funny and endearing, especially since he obeyed the command almost mindlessly, slowly peeling back the covers to wiggle underneath them. Eddie crawled over him (mostly to be annoying and hopefully get Richie to laugh or smile or do <em>something </em>that wasn’t look horrified – he shook loose a startled ‘<em>oomph</em>’ from Richie and a small huffy noise which was better than nothing) and settled himself into bed as well, turning onto his side to face Richie.</p>
<p>The bed was huge. Massive. Unreasonably so. There was no <em>need </em>for Eddie to squiggle closer until his knees brushed Richie’s hairy legs but he did it anyways, Richie watching him with huge, teary eyes. Not enjoying the scrutiny, Eddie plucked Richie’s glasses off his face and leaned back to set them on the nightstand, digging the cracked pair out of his pajama pockets under the covers and slipping them into the drawer beside the bed because there were some things Eddie couldn’t explain, even to himself.</p>
<p>“I can’t believe I have to fucking <em>tell </em>you this but don’t you dare do something stupid like that <em>ever</em>, you hear me?” Eddie said, trying to sound stern and harsh even though he was whispering. He fell about a mile short. He could hear the hurt in his own voice. The worry. Richie sucked his bottom lip into his mouth looking more hang-dog than ever. “Richie, I –”</p>
<p>Eddie swallowed, a strange burble of grief choking him unexpectedly.</p>
<p>“I – I thought you were <em>dead</em>, jackass. When you got sucked into the lights I –” Richie’s fingers barely skimmed Eddie’s under the covers and Eddie grabbed his hand, gripping it fiercely, willing himself not to cry. “I couldn’t let that happen to you, Rich. And if it got you back, dying would be worth it.”</p>
<p>“<em>Eddie</em>,” Richie gasped, almost a sob.</p>
<p>“But I <em>didn’t </em>die and you <em>didn’t</em> leave me in a sewer so you don’t have to be scared anymore. All that stuff’s in the past and you should leave it there.”</p>
<p>“No, I know that,” Richie hummed, scrubbing at his eyes again. “But I wake up and the grief is <em>real</em>, Eds. It’s real and it’s fresh and I - once I remind myself that what I saw didn’t happen, it’s better. But I need proof, you know?”</p>
<p>“The picture of me and Bill?” Eddie filled in. </p>
<p>Richie shrugged. “It helps. Holds me over until you wake up and come out of your room and say something <em>Eddie </em>enough that I know I couldn’t still be, you know…” He shifted uncomfortably and when Eddie only frowned deeply, Richie clarified. “Floating.”</p>
<p>And jesus, was that why he found Richie at the kitchen counter so many mornings, nursing a cup of coffee, black rings under his eyes, his faraway look shifting to laser scrutiny when Eddie walked into the room? Was he waiting around for <em>hours </em>for Eddie to wake up, staring at pictures on his phone while the sun rose and trying to convince himself he wasn’t still stuck in the Deadlights?</p>
<p>“Sleep here,” Eddie said, the words out of his mouth before he thought them through.</p>
<p>Richie, the absolute asshole, froze, his bugged out, far-sighted eyes clearly trying to sear a hole through Eddie despite the half-dark.</p>
<p>“We already did it for a month and a fucking half and you never woke up screaming once,” Eddie continued, thoughts spewing out like vomit. “And you practically <em>lived </em>in my bed when we were kids. You’ve always slept better with company.”</p>
<p>“I do…” Richie mumbled, something young and painfully vulnerable on his face.</p>
<p>“The nightmares will probably get better with time –” at least that’s what Eddie’s therapist kept telling him and for Richie’s sake, he really hoped it was true, “- so just… sleep here until they do.”</p>
<p>Richie audibly swallowed and Eddie tracked the bob of his adam’s apple in his throat.</p>
<p>“You don’t have to –” Richie started, the jackass, but Eddie cut him off, hating that he had to fucking say it, “I sleep better with you here, too, asshole.”</p>
<p>Stupidly, Richie looked, again, on the edge of tears.</p>
<p>“Ugh, just come here,” Eddie groaned, scooting over to close the last foot between them, grabbing Richie by the back of his head and tugging his face until his forehead pressed against Eddie’s sternum. Richie held himself painfully stiff for a beat too long and then sagged, sighing loudly against Eddie’s t-shirt and not very discreetly wiping his face on Eddie’s clothes. Eddie rolled his eyes to the dark ceiling but found he wasn’t as mad about the fluid sharing as he should have been.</p>
<p>After a long moment, Richie mumbled, “I want to be the big spoon,” into Eddie’s pec and his voice sounded more even, more controlled, more like himself so Eddie huffed out an exaggerated sigh of annoyance (that was mostly for show) before turning over to present Richie with his back.</p>
<p>It was downright upsetting how easily Richie slotted into the space along Eddie’s spine, knees tucking into the curve of Eddie’s legs, one of Richie’s arms sliding between Eddie’s waist and his arm to lay a flat palm against his sternum and tug them together closer until Eddie’s back was flush to Richie’s chest. Richie’s breath stirred the skin behind Eddie’s ear and he repressed a shiver, still after all this time achingly relieved at proof that Richie was alive.</p>
<p>And it felt <em>good</em> being so enveloped by Richie. He thought it would be constraining, one of Richie’s ankles tucked between Eddie’s, but it wasn’t at all. It was maybe the safest Eddie had ever felt in his entire life.</p>
<p>Something Eddie strongly suspected was Richie’s nose briefly touched the nape of his neck, heat spiraling from the point of contact to every nerve ending in his body before Richie huffed a noise that was almost a laugh.</p>
<p>“Thanks Spaghetti,” he mumbled against Eddie’s shoulder, and Richie must have been exactly as tired as the dark circles under his eyes implied because his body was going lax, his huge chest expanding to press against Eddie’s back in a deep, even rhythm as he started to drift into sleep.</p>
<p>“For what?” Eddie grumbled, unnervingly, electrifyingly awake.</p>
<p>“For everything,” Richie said, his voice slow and deep on the cusp of sleep. “For being alive. For being <em>you</em>.”</p>
<p>Eddie’s heart tried valiantly to stop but Eddie still had the wherewithal to huff out, “Fucking <em>dweeb</em>,” under his breath, the lack of a response evidence that Richie was already out like a light.</p>
<p>So Eddie was stuck there, wrapped up in Richie, wide awake with too many thoughts, his brain still stalling over the ‘<em>thanks for being you</em>’ that literally no one had ever before expressed to him in even the faintest shape or form. The worst thing was, Eddie knew Richie <em>meant </em>it. And for some reason, that was really doing a number on his circulatory system, his blood pumping in a way that usually urged Eddie to get up and pace around or work out his aggression at the gym or fucking jerk off furiously in the bathroom.</p>
<p>But pinned in place by the comfort of Richie’s <em>entire body </em>smushed up against his, Eddie was condemned to stew in his own thoughts.</p>
<p>Fucking <em>Richie</em>.</p>
<p>Eddie was a worrier. That had always been true and, probably because Richie was a magnet for bullshit, Richie occupied a lot of space in Eddie’s mind, ever since they met when they were seven and Richie promptly, <em>bafflingly</em>, shoved an uncapped marker up his nose deep enough to give himself a nosebleed.</p>
<p>(It was a green marker and the ink around his nostril had clashed horribly with the red of his blood. This Eddie remembers specifically, the event snapshot crisp in his newly regained memory like it had spent the 22 absentee years condensing into crystal.)</p>
<p>So Eddie shouldn’t have been surprised that Richie <em>still </em>took up about 70% of his mental space. Old habits die hard, right? And like it was written in his DNA, Eddie couldn’t stop worrying about Richie, even though he was an adult now and as of yet hadn’t inserted anything he shouldn’t into orifices where they didn’t belong.</p>
<p>(Something pornographic flashed briefly in his brain but Eddie shut that down <em>hard </em>before it could take root.)</p>
<p>And, despite the whole <em>don’t turn into Sonia</em> thing that Eddie was trying very hard to keep in mind, taking care of Richie felt as natural as it had when Eddie slapped the marker out of Richie’s hand and fished a tissue out of his fanny pack to stem the trickling blood flowing out of baby Richie’s idiot nose.</p>
<p>Yes Richie <em>could </em>take care of himself, it was just that Eddie could do it better. And, glancing around the dim master bedroom (the room that <em>should </em>be Richie’s because he paid for the damn house, the one Richie had helped Eddie paint and furnish, the bathroom door still draped with a plastic tarp to keep out the dust from the renovations Richie had paid extra for so they could be done by the end of the week) Eddie wondered how many people in Richie’s life prioritized <em>him</em>. Including Richie himself. Maybe <em>especially </em>Richie himself.</p>
<p>Most frustratingly, Richie was being… weird. Weirder than usual. The nightmares Eddie wasn’t entirely surprised about and he realized (belatedly) that he probably should have pried more about how tired Richie had been the last week or so but Richie was so fucking quick to smile and shrug shit off and Eddie as an adult wasn’t sure how many questions were too many questions (<em>boundaries boundaries boundaries</em> his therapist repeated like a fucking broken record).</p>
<p>But <em>fuck that</em>. If Richie was going to withhold vital information about his health, Eddie was going to be as annoying about it as he’d been when he was thirteen and forbade Richie from swimming in the quarry with a split lip for fear of him dying of infection.</p>
<p>At least Eddie had finally worked up the nerve to outright ask about Stan. And Richie had been so obviously genuinely baffled Eddie didn’t think he was lying when he denied the crush Eddie had been so fucking sure about, but there was <em>something </em>going on in that goon head of his.</p>
<p>Or maybe Richie was just <em>different </em>now that he was older. Obviously he was - this was a Richie who had learned how and when to reign himself in (even though he seemingly didn’t do so often, at least not in Eddie’s presence), a Richie who had the ability to get to appointments on time and make polite (and only slightly inappropriate) small talk with colleagues and service employees, a Richie who had practical knowledge of sex (and not just sex but <em>sex with men</em>).</p>
<p>Behind him Richie shifted, huffing a long warm sigh against the back of Eddie’s neck, his fingers weaseling between Eddie’s ribs and the mattress, Richie’s weirdly strong arm a tight band across his chest. Infuriatingly, Eddie’s dick, which had been half interested ever since Richie crawled into his bed with deer-in-the-headlight eyes, twitched and filled out a little thicker.</p>
<p>Great. Fucking great.</p>
<p>Eddie had hoped his dick’s ridiculous interest in Richie would have faded now that he wasn’t studying Richie’s broad back twice a day to inspect his healed scar (though he still stole peeks at it anytime Richie was shirtless out of medical curiousity) or was trapped lounging in Richie’s bed when Richie strode out of the shower, a towel wrapped around his waist, skin flushed with heat. They had a little more space for privacy in the house (not that they used it, Richie refused to wear real pants if it wasn’t absolutely necessary and they were still sharing a bathroom until Eddie’s was finished) but Eddie had really hoped the distance would help turn his Richie-centered sexual awakening into something less Richie-centered.</p>
<p>Eddie would never admit to anyone <em>ever </em>that his most recent sexuality crisis (which wasn’t exactly a crisis, not any more than every other event in Eddie’s life could be called a crisis which, okay, maybe he always thought <em>everything </em>was a crisis so this didn’t particularly stand out) was so tied to Richie. Richie who was gay. Richie who was <em>broad</em>. Richie who was sweet and smiled when Eddie bossed him around and laughed at the mean things Eddie said.</p>
<p>But that was the fucking problem.</p>
<p>As a forty year old man going through a divorce while discovering his sexuality, Eddie was starting to get… curious. Porn was one thing (watching guys rail each other was <em>great </em>actually, who fucking knew?), but what did that <em>feel </em>like? What would it <em>be </em>like? Would thick, hairy thighs wrapped around his waist feel as good as he imagined they would? Would kissing a stubbled cheek be as nice as he hoped? Would Eddie’s dick be able to feel the difference between the clench of a man’s ass versus a vagina?</p>
<p>And because his brain hated him and because Richie was <em>right there</em>, those thighs and that cheek and that asshole tended to be <em>Richie’s </em>in Eddie’s more recent fantasies and that was just… a fucking loaded gun in the hands of a toddler.</p>
<p>Literally any other man on earth would be better. One that wasn’t his recently out, semi-famous best friend who he had just moved in with. Even though Eddie strongly suspected there was some sort of mutual attraction there (Richie turned into a fucking tomato anytime Eddie wore the red shorts Bev had sent him which was <em>deeply </em>satisfying no matter how many times it happened and he wore them as often as he could specifically to torture Richie), having sex with a friend would probably complicate things. Having sex with <em>Richie </em>would complicate things. Even though it would probably also be <em>very good</em>. Fuck, if Richie cried - if he said Eddie’s <em>name </em>while he cried…</p>
<p>Okay no. He couldn’t think about that with Richie literally wrapped around him or things were going to get weird.</p>
<p>Maybe Eddie just needed to get some experimentation of out his system. That sounded fucking <em>terrifying</em>, even in his head (and maybe that’s why he spent so much time thinking about Richie – Eddie was so far behind on the learning curve that he’d be <em>mortified </em>if he fucked something up with a stranger but Richie was safe and fun and mocked him for fucking everything so if he laughed at Eddie, Eddie could just punch him in the arm and tell him to shut the fuck up) but Eddie was on the verge of desperate. He had to stop thinking about Richie like that, especially if they were going to be sharing a bed.</p>
<p>Sure, Eddie would never intentionally hurt Richie – in fact, he’d work hard to make Richie feel <em>so</em> fucking good, discover new ways to keep <em>all </em>of Richie’s attention, make him fucking <em>beg </em>– okay <em>no</em>, start over.</p>
<p>Sure, Eddie would never intentionally hurt Richie but Eddie was beginning to suspect Richie was a fucking <em>romantic</em>. He never would have guessed that when they were thirteen and Richie lumbered around with all the sensitivity of a rusty nail. But with new eyes, Eddie could see Richie lived with his whole heart exposed, completely vulnerable to the gentlest of blows, and that wasn’t the kind of person you <em>experimented </em>with. That would be cruel and unfair and besides, Richie was still probably in love with <em>someone</em> – he kept pretending like he wasn’t but Eddie wasn’t convinced.</p>
<p>(Maybe he had an ex-boyfriend he was still hung up on? Some old fling he still burned a candle for? Whatever, Eddie would sniff that information out eventually.)</p>
<p>So yeah. Eddie needed to find a guy. <em>Any</em> guy that wasn’t Richie. Even if all he did was kiss them. Just to make sure he wasn’t, like, <em>hallucinating </em>his new found bisexuality. And so he could move forward with his life knowing a relationship with another man was a real and actual thing he was capable of doing, not just something he jerked off to in the shower.</p>
<p>But fuck. Where did a forty year old man with zero experience with guys find a dude to kiss?</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm implementing the whole trigger warning thing starting now and whenever I get a chance to revisit them, I'll cycle through the previous chapters and add them there too. In the meantime, just give a shoutout if you feel like I missed anything!</p>
<p>As always, thanks for reading and see you in the new year! (here's to hoping 2021 will be a little better for everyone)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Chapter Sixteen</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: homophobic language and alcohol consumption</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Richie slowly stirred himself awake from the deepest sleep he’d had in weeks.</p>
<p>When he realized he was in <em>Eddie’s </em>bed, his eyes popped open on a gasp. The thought alone, ‘<em>I’m waking up in Eddie’s bed</em>,’ was enough to leave him hitching a tent with Eddie’s incredibly soft, billion thread-count sheets. Eddie was already gone, off to work, a hazy lingering memory of the bed dipping and the soft noises of him getting ready familiar from the month and a half together in Richie’s old apartment but somehow radically different when it was <em>Richie </em>intruding on Eddie’s space.</p>
<p>Even though Eddie washed his bedding once a week (which, in Richie's mind, was absolute overkill) the soft pillowcase against his cheek smelled like Eddie's shampoo and his skin and his sweat which, pathetically, was a scent Richie wanted to roll around in like a dog. He resisted the temptation – he knew how to toe the line of being a normal pervert and a <em>massive </em>pervert, thank you very fucking much - and then his already fantastic morning got better when he went to scrub his eyes and slapped himself in the face with a post-it note stuck to his palm.</p>
<p>Eddie had left him a note (and how pathetic was Richie that even <em>that </em>was so delightfully domestic he wanted to glue it in a scrapbook and keep it forever). He squinted at it but without his glasses, the lines were too blurry to make out so he scrambled across Eddie’s ridiculously huge bed and found his glasses on the nightstand, jamming them onto his face.</p>
<p>Richie had assumed the note would be a list of last minute things to do before Bev showed up tomorrow, the same list of things they’d gone over the night before. Laundry. Wipe down the kitchen. Take out the trash and clean the pool.</p>
<p>Richie’s heart fucking <em>swooped </em>when he realized that it was, instead, a crude little drawing of a frowny face. Not just any frowny face. <em>Eddie’s </em>frowny face. Richie recognized it from the dark brows and rough estimation of Eddie’s hairstyle and the little line representing the scar on Eddie’s cheek.</p>
<p>Eddie had woken up and moved through his ridiculous morning routine, donned some fancy little suit to impress his fancy insurance coworkers, and then stopped to take the time to drawn this weird little doodle of himself scowling – exactly the scowl Richie loved so fiercely it hurt – and then stuck it to Richie’s outstretched hand.</p>
<p>If a heart could physically burst from affection, Richie would be a dead man.</p>
<p>He spent a long time lying in bed staring at Eddie’s goofy little drawing, reveling in the fact that he had <em>permission </em>to be there. Eddie had walked him, hand in fucking hand, to the bed the night before and literally ordered him into it (which, wow, <em>that </em>was the start of too many of his fantasies). And they had tentatively agreed to <em>keep </em>sleeping together. Even though Richie had his own bed next door. Even though there were actually <em>three </em>other beds already in the house – his, Bev’s, and Bill’s – and they didn’t <em>need </em>to bunk together anymore.</p>
<p>True, Eddie had extended the offer out of pity which pretty seriously sucked. There were significantly better ways to get invited into a guy’s bed. But Eddie also said <em>he </em>slept better with Richie around so… that counted for something, right?</p>
<p>And maybe Richie should have refused. Okay, he <em>definitely </em>should have refused – Eddie had no idea Richie was fucking <em>crazy </em>about him and might feel differently about sharing a bed with Richie if he knew the full story – but when Eddie tugged him through the hall the night before, Richie had been so <em>so </em>tired. The Deadlight dreams had been fucking him up ever since they moved into the new house. Most the time he could make up some of the lost sleep with a nap during the day but the memory of Eddie’s blood in his mouth, the little “…<em>Richie</em>?” Eddie breathed out in shock; reliving that shit was fraying Richie’s nerves down to the bone.</p>
<p>So if Richie was going to hell for some light taking-advantage-of-a-friend’s-goodwill, he was really fucking sorry. It was just so hard to be strong when Eddie was offering <em>exactly </em>the thing he wanted most and did it in <em>exactly</em> the kind of pushy way that turned Richie to complacent jell-o.</p>
<p>And… well… the longer Richie laid there and stared at the little doodle Eddie had left him, the one that expressed nothing except ‘<em>hey, I’m here and I don’t want you to be alone and I can be a little silly with you even though I pretend to disdain silliness</em>,’ the more Richie started thinking.</p>
<p>He’d been waiting for a sign. Some indication that maybe, possibly, Eddie might be persuaded into letting Richie love him. Richie didn’t even need Eddie to love him back.</p>
<p>(HAHAHA okay he didn’t <em>need</em> it but he <em>really </em>fucking wanted it)</p>
<p>Richie would be relatively happy with simply existing in a state where Eddie knew and didn’t hate him for it.</p>
<p>And the night before, Eddie had dragged Richie to his bed and curled up in Richie’s arms like he fucking belonged there. Sure, Richie, in a fugue state, had <em>asked </em>if he could hold Eddie that way but the little maniac had agreed! <em>Eddie</em>! A man who didn't have a conceding bone in his body. Was it possibly that some part of Eddie <em>wanted </em>that closeness? Was it crazy to read into that?</p>
<p>Not to mention, Richie had woken up briefly in the middle of the night and Eddie had sleep-grumbled at him when he shifted, <em>burrowing</em> into Richie’s chest, practically fucking motorboating Richie’s tits in an attempt to cram his face more firmly against Richie’s t-shirt and that had to mean something. Generally people didn’t <em>platonically </em>motorboat someone’s tits. That’s practically second base.</p>
<p>Sure, Eddie was cuddly by nature, but that went above and beyond we’re-friends-and-filled-with-trauma, right? It wasn’t like <em>Bill </em>was sleeping curled up in Richie’s arms on the nights he slept over. Dead asleep, Eddie had clung to Richie and that was going right to his fucking head. Richie was tentatively trying to <em>let </em>it go to his head.</p>
<p>Because everyone kept on bitching at him to tell Eddie how he felt. His therapist. Bev. Mike’s very pointed eyebrow lift at the end of the video call they’d done with him two nights prior while Eddie was full on wrestling Richie into the couch. And, now that Richie wasn’t so sleep deprived and sick with dread, he could pull back far enough to wonder if maybe everyone was onto something there.</p>
<p>However – and this was the crux of the fucking issue - it could ruin Everything.</p>
<p>If Richie sat Eddie down and said, ‘<em>Hey man, turns out I have a big stupid heart-boner for you and I have since I was a fucking child and also, not to horrify you, but I have a normal boner for you too, are you at all interested in any of that</em>?’ and Eddie reacted in any way that wasn’t enthusiastic agreement, Richie’s heart might literally stop. Which obviously wasn’t the right place to be coming from.</p>
<p>Eddie always had this raised-by-wolves quality that, gun to his head, Richie found super fucking funny and kind of insanely adorable. Especially because it added to the long list of contradictions that made up Eddie Kaspbrak. Sure, he could spout the mercury count in Derry’s drinking water and alphabetize the books in his locker but he also almost never said ‘please’ or ‘thank you’ and, when driven to the point of frustration, he’d literally gnash his teeth like a dog with rabies.</p>
<p>That quality made Eddie hard to predict – turned him feral and defensive which would be a problem if Richie’s stupid heart-boner tapped into that animal part of his brain and Eddie wound up feeling hunted.</p>
<p>And if Eddie was <em>weird </em>after, if Eddie started avoiding him, stopped practically sitting on his lap while they watched TV, shied away from all the touching Richie had gotten <em>addicted </em>to, Richie didn’t know what he’d do. Go insane, probably. And that wasn’t really an option now that there were people who would care if he started acting out.</p>
<p>Plus, they <em>lived </em>together. If Eddie felt disgusted or violated or annoyed with Richie’s lifelong crush/obsession, he might want to leave. Eddie was in the middle of a divorce and had just relocated to the other side of the country – driving him out of the one safe space he currently had just because Richie had <em>feelings </em>would be extremely unfair.</p>
<p>On the other hand, if Richie began sleeping in Eddie’s bed on a regular, semi-permanent basis, if all the relatively-friendly-but-also-kind-of-something-more-than-that cuddling was shifted to a horizontal position in the dark, there was no way Richie could keep himself from reading into it because he really wanted to just <em>be </em>in a loving, boyfriendly, husbandly, soulmatey relationship with Eddie, ideally without ever having to talk about it or address the situation directly until they were both wearing fucking wedding bands and buying joint cemetery plots.</p>
<p>Yeesh.</p>
<p>To distract himself from all that, Richie wiggled out of Eddie’s plush bed and threw on sweatpants, padding out into the kitchen with the post-it note still in hand. He wound up sticking it to the fridge with a magnet and taking a picture of it (he planned on cherishing it forever, maybe having it framed) and, because he couldn’t go thirty waking minutes without making contact with Eddie, he sent the picture to him with a string of cry-laughing emojis.</p>
<p>After a moment of reckless debate, he added:</p>
<p>
  <em>Richie: ur the fucking cutest spaghetti</em>
</p>
<p>With a tentative glance around the kitchen (<em>their </em>kitchen, jesus his heart needed to settle the fuck down), Richie noticed that Eddie had brewed a pot of coffee. Usually that was a Richie-task, Eddie still relatively ambivalent about the stuff while Richie needed it daily to live. But Eddie had made a pot and pulled down a mug (Richie’s favorite – one that was shaped like a hideous dog – maybe a boxer – but the likeness was <em>not good</em> which was why it was his favorite) and had set the sugar bowl and creamer next to it like Richie wouldn’t have been able to pull those things out of the cabinet himself.</p>
<p>Richie felt that gesture all the way down to the soles of his feet. Eddie, the fucking weirdo, showed that he cared in the strangest, most spectacular ways and Richie was fucking drowning.</p>
<p>Before he let himself linger too long on Eddie’s multitudinous charming strangenesses and wound up writing <em>another </em>ten minute set no one would ever hear because it couldn’t be called anything but a fucking ode to Eddie, Richie sent the same picture of Eddie’s drawing to the group chat because he <em>still </em>couldn’t help himself and everyone needed to see how fucking adorable Eddie – this grown ass grumpy man Richie was absolutely stupid for – could be.</p>
<p>The Losers loved it because <em>of course </em>they would. It was so fucking cute. <em>Unbearably </em>cute. Eddie left a little picture behind to scowl at Richie in his absence. Richie was <em>in love</em>.</p>
<p>And maybe because he was feeling extra disgustingly in love that day, he drew his own little Eddie doodle, emphasizing Eddie’s doe eyes and those lower lashes because Richie was such a sucker for them. The end result wasn’t bad – Richie wasn’t an artist in any sense of the word but he had spent enough time thinking about that frowny-Bambi look Eddie had perfected the year he turned seven that some of its power came across.</p>
<p>He sent a picture of his drawing to the group, stuck it up on the fridge next to Eddie’s and absolute fell apart with laughter as a series of pictures streamed into the group chat.</p>
<p>Suddenly <em>everyone </em>was drawing little Eddies. Bev’s was easily the best – she’d gone to fucking fashion school and knew her way around a sketchbook so she perfectly emphasized Eddie’s dimples, the ones Richie wanted to abandon society for ala <em>Walden</em>. Bill’s was practically a portrait and Richie remembered, belatedly, that Bill had always liked to draw was surprisingly still pretty good at it which was just unfair. That bastard had way too many talents. Ben’s was <em>impressively</em> bad considering he had a design based career but it was obviously lovingly rendered and Mike’s delightfully included a little chopping hand under Eddie’s caricaturized face – a fact that made Richie laugh so hard he teared up.</p>
<p>Eddie was notably absent from the group chat but he hadn’t messaged Richie privately either so he was likely busy with work. In the meantime, Richie entertained himself by thinking about what stupid expression Eddie was likely to make when he checked his phone and found this very strange but very sweet proof of the Losers’ affection. God, what Richie wouldn’t give to be a fly on the wall for that. Eddie was <em>for sure </em>going to blush and bluster and get all fucking embarrassed-angry-pleased and if Richie were present, there was no way he’d be able to resist pinching his cheeks.</p>
<p>Because Eddie – just like every single one of the Losers – still had trouble grasping that there were people who loved him. <em>Really </em>loved him. A lifetime apart spent with other people who couldn’t ever fully emotionally click (thanks to the forgotten stain of all that clown bullshit) made the Losers a rag-tag group of lonely souls. None of them deserved that but thinking Eddie had spent so long not knowing people cared about him, people knew him, people <em>loved </em>him (<em>Richie </em>loved him) always twinged Richie’s heart particularly bad.</p>
<p>More than anything, Richie wanted Eddie to feel the love he so deserved.</p>
<p>It was that thought, formed solid and clear in Richie’s head like a neon sign turned on in the dark, that stalled out Richie’s mind and kick started it into a decision like a computer rebooting.</p>
<p>Eddie <em>deserved</em> to know he was loved.</p>
<p>Richie had circled this thought when he’d come out, when he’d started talking to his therapist about real actual things, when he went on that podcast and spilled his fucking guts to a gang of open-minded Gen-Z-ers. Richie’s love (though complicated and overwhelming and likely unrequited) was, mostly, a good thing. Eddie deserved that love. Of course he did, Richie had never questioned that for a fucking minute.</p>
<p>But maybe Eddie also deserved to <em>know </em>he was loved.</p>
<p>Eddie struggled with self-worth. It didn’t take a fucking psych degree to know Eddie thought he was difficult and prickly and somehow the little hobgoblin had <em>no </em>idea how fucking <em>stupid </em>hot he was. But maybe Richie could change his mind about that. Or convince him that even if he <em>was </em>difficult and prickly and apparently blind, that Richie loved him all the more, for all those reasons and then some.</p>
<p>And maybe, in the interest of full disclosure, Richie needed to tell Eddie his feelings before they started, you know, sleeping together. Fair warning a boner might make an appearance beneath the sheets sounded like the responsible thing to do for a very dear friend. Polite, even. And after a lifetime of being a piece of shit, Richie should probably try to a little harder for the people he cared about.</p>
<p>Richie glanced again at the double Eddie doodles stuck to the fridge. He swirled the coffee Eddie had made for him. He stared, a little blankly, at the yellow couch Richie loved and Eddie probably actually hated but still had made look good in their brightly decorated living room, assumedly just to make Richie happy.</p>
<p>Eddie did love Richie. That was obvious. Last night he’d told Richie he was willing to lay down his <em>life </em>to save Richie’s and he very nearly had. Sure, that was the Losers’ whole shtick but there had been something in Eddie’s tone of voice, in the lips he’d pressed to Richie’s forehead, in the gleam of his eyes, that Richie couldn’t un-hear or un-feel or un-see.</p>
<p>Richie might be straight up losing his mind but that goddamn mantra of ‘<em>do I have a chance, do I have a chance</em>’ horrifically started sounding a little more like ‘<em>I think I’ve got a chance, I think I’ve got a chance</em>.’ His odds were better than zero at least which was something he’d never <em>dreamed </em>possible. At least he didn’t think Eddie would say, ‘<em>no, gross, get the fuck away from me</em>’ and, well, Richie might be able to live with anything more than that if there was a non-zero possibility that Eddie might instead say ‘<em>okay</em>.’</p>
<p>Contingency plan-wise, Bev was due in tomorrow, staying for a week and a half. If Eddie said ‘<em>no fucking thank you</em>,’ she’d make a good buffer. She and Eddie had developed a tighter relationship than they’d had when they were kids – bonded by divorce and abuse (fucking <em>bleak</em>) – and she was the kind of person who was so criminally upfront with her thoughts that she’d probably be able to talk Eddie out of straight up moving out. And after she left, if Eddie was <em>still </em>disgusted, Richie could fuck off for a little while and let Eddie have space and run of the house.</p>
<p>Sucking in a long, shaky breath through his nose, Richie admitted the thing he’d been circling since he found that fucking post-it note.</p>
<p>He had to do it. He was going to tell Eddie. Rip the Band-aid off and hope to fuck whatever was underneath didn’t get infected.</p>
<p>When Eddie got off work and came home, Richie was going to sit him down and tell him. He’d make a whole thing of it – something <em>lightly</em> romantic so it could be downplayed if things went bad but still <em>special </em>or some shit because Eddie deserved that and Richie was a fucking sap and if things went well (which, like <em>maybe </em>could happen???), Eddie would be pissed if the story he had to tell the rest of the Losers was ‘<em>Richie word vomited his feelings at me in the doorway and then actually vomited on my shoes</em>’ which was distressingly a very real possibility.</p>
<p>So Richie would cook Eddie dinner (yeah) something a little nicer than usual (fuck yeah) and maybe light some candles? (<em>no</em>, too much, reel it in). He’d put on some nice music or something (that’s better) and then… he’d tell him.</p>
<p>He was going to tell Eddie he loved him.</p>
<p>Hopefully without vomiting.</p>
<p>Maybe, just in case, he’d do it within sprinting distance of the kitchen sink.</p>
<p>Desperately needing <em>someone </em>to validate this idea and cheer him on and maybe also hold him accountable when he tried to chicken out in a couple hours, he texted Bev.</p>
<p>
  <em>Richie: im gonna fuckin do it</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Richie: im gonna tell Eddie how I feel</em>
</p>
<p>When her response wasn’t so quick it defied the laws of physics, he continued manically typing.</p>
<p>
  <em>Richie: this is a good idea right?</em>
</p>
<p>He stopped himself from sending it, dutifully erasing it and trying out, ‘<em>he’s not gonna like hate me right?</em>’ before backtracking and typing out, ‘<em>as someone who is now with the person who was crushing on them 4ever, how creepy was it to hear about Ben’s feelings? like on a scale of 1 - serial killer</em>,’ before erasing that too.</p>
<p>Deciding that he should try to calm his shit for five fucking minutes before bombarding Bev with texts, Richie forced himself to drop his phone on the counter, staring a little shell-shocked at the contents of the fridge and absently putting together a grocery list. What should he cook for Eddie? What kind of meal said ‘<em>I’m pathetically in love with you and I swear I could be good for you</em>’? What paired best with a love confession, chicken or steak?</p>
<p>Spaghetti was out. He’d tried that when he was eighteen and just look how that turned out.</p>
<p>His phone buzzed on the counter while Richie was checking how many eggs they had left in the carton and he jolted so bad half the condiments on the fridge door came tumbling down. Luckily nothing broke but as he fumbled to shove everything back into place, his phone started ringing and, still juggling the mustard, ketchup, and a bottle of salad dressing, Richie staggered to the counter.</p>
<p>Bev’s contact photo lit up his phone and he hummed a sigh of relief. He had to talk to <em>someone </em>about this or the next seven-ish hours were going to drive him up a wall.</p>
<p>Tucking all the various foodstuffs in the crook of one arm and swiping to answer his phone, he felt his eyes pop when he heard Bev loud and clear before he even put the speaker to his ear, the long, single note of a shriek filling the quiet kitchen.</p>
<p>Richie smiled despite himself. It was really nice to have friends.</p>
<p>“Okay, okay, calm down, Marsh,” he hummed, aiming for authoritative, hoping he didn’t sound as low-key distressed as he felt.</p>
<p>“Oh my god I’m so proud of you, Richie!” she squealed, still in the same key of her excited shriek. “I fucking knew you could do it!”</p>
<p>“Well, let’s not count our chickens before they hatch,” Richie mumbled, ambling back to the fridge with his phone pressed between his ear and his shoulder. “I’ve still got a few hours to pussy out.”</p>
<p>“Psh, the hard part is over, hun! Where are you taking him? What’s your plan?”</p>
<p>“Not taking him anywhere – fuck, <em>should I</em>? I thought doing it here would be better. You know, in case one of us makes a scene or something…”</p>
<p>Bev cackled. “Date night at home, good plan. I guess if he jumped your bones in public that would be a little weird.”</p>
<p>Richie choked on his own spit. In no version of events did Richie imagine his bones getting jumped – why would he hurt himself like that? – but now the image was there, Eddie looking soft and shocked and then slowly <em>delighted</em>, Eddie grabbing him by his shirt lapels the same way he often did when Richie was annoying and Eddie felt he needed a good shaking, but instead of shoving him around, the grip pulled him forward into a kiss…</p>
<p>Fuck. Now he was holding mustard, ketchup, a bottle of salad dressing, <em>and</em> sporting half a fucking chub, his vision blurring up a bit with tears. Now wasn’t the time. He ripped open the fridge door and distractedly starting putting everything back in place.</p>
<p>“It’s just the <em>one</em> bone I’m hoping he’ll jump,” Richie grumbled, slamming the fridge door closed and trying to erase that fantasy from his mind before it could plant itself in Richie’s blood and poison him. “But… like, he won’t – you don’t think he’ll <em>hate me</em>, right? Like what are the odds he just fucking bails?”</p>
<p>“Richie,” Bev hummed, a laugh in her voice. “He agreed to a date, didn’t he? Why would he do that if he <em>hated </em>you?”</p>
<p>“He –” Richie’s brain stalled. “What?”</p>
<p>“He’s already fucking bragging about it in the group chat! And Eddie could never hate you –”</p>
<p>“- He’s bragging about <em>what </em>in the group chat?” Richie interrupted, so very confused.</p>
<p>“You big nerd, just go see for yourself,” Bev said and Richie pulled his phone away from his ear, put Bev on speaker, and swiped over to his messages. “God, you two are going to be unbearable, aren’t you,” she sighed, not sounding half as annoyed as she meant to, but Richie barely heard her because his eyes were busy sweeping over a line of text blaring up at him from the group chat.</p>
<p>
  <em>Eddie: I have a date tonight.</em>
</p>
<p>Richie’s hand went slack and his phone clattered to the counter.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>After lying awake in Richie’s arms for an hour, faintly in turmoil, willing his utterly inappropriate erection to chill the fuck out until he finally managed to drift off into a sleep so thorough he almost missed his alarm, Eddie woke up with A Plan.</p>
<p>If Eddie was in the market for a guy to kiss, there was a dude at work that might fit the bill.</p>
<p>Not <em>work </em>work. He wasn’t someone from Eddie’s office. Eddie wasn’t fucking <em>insane</em>, he wasn’t about to wind up called into HR. The last time he combined work with romance (if he could even call his relationship with Myra <em>romantic</em>) the end result was a decade of bad decisions and a divorce so he was going to steer fucking clear of that bullshit.</p>
<p>The guy Eddie had in mind worked in the same building but for a different company. He tended to take his lunch in the sunny courtyard at the same time Eddie did. He was tall and wore big glasses with wire frames and probably would have qualified as a hipster if he was just a few years younger but he wasn’t <em>so </em>stylish as to be intimidating.</p>
<p>Notably, this guy occasionally stole looks at Eddie with a frequency that, when Eddie had started taking his lunches outside, Eddie thought meant he wanted to fucking fight or something but (with a little introspection and a talk with his therapist) Eddie decided the glances might actually be <em>interest</em>.</p>
<p>So after Eddie woke up with Richie in <em>his</em> new bed (Richie huge and soft and warm, his face tucked between Eddie’s shoulder and the pillow, one arm still draped over Eddie’s back) Eddie decided it was time to put something in motion. That decision definitely didn’t have anything to do with how good Richie looked tangled up in Eddie’s sheets or all the peeks Eddie couldn’t help but steal as he dressed himself for work in front of his closet like he did every other day except Richie’s sleeping face was visible in the mirror right next to Eddie’s hip.</p>
<p>And Eddie tried not to think too hard about the fact that he’d left Richie a completely stupid note; just a post-it with a crappy little frowny face drawn on it, stuck to Richie’s outstretched hand (the one that had been curved over Eddie’s ribs when his alarm went off and looked, upsettingly, like Richie had reached out trying to find Eddie in his sleep while Eddie had showered). Eddie wasn’t even sure what he was trying to express with that note but somehow, after the night Richie had, after he’d cried and cracked open his walls just a little bit more to let Eddie in, it didn’t feel right slipping out while he was asleep.</p>
<p>For that same reason, he brewed a pot of coffee. Richie would need it, he always did, and maybe Eddie was rewarding him a little for opening up. Lord knows Richie didn’t find that shit easy so Eddie wanted to encourage his small steps in any little way possible.</p>
<p>Plus, if Eddie was going to try <em>making a move </em>(ugh) on that guy at lunch, the caffeine boost wouldn’t hurt.</p>
<p>In true Risk Analyst fashion, Eddie spent the entire morning at his desk absently filling out spreadsheets and telling himself if he made a complete fool of himself, avoiding his humiliation would be as easy as steering himself clear of the courtyard in the future. The weather was finally shifting to something a little chilly (in <em>November</em>, what the fuck was LA?) so he might have to give up eating there soon anyways. Overall, it was an acceptable loss.</p>
<p>When noon rolled around, Eddie grabbed his leftover chili from the office fridge, reheated it, and traipsed down to the courtyard with Tupperware and spoon in hand like he was on a mission. His hands were trying to shake and his breath had that wheezy rasp to it that he used to think was asthma but Eddie determinedly <em>refused </em>to dip his hand into his pocket to fiddle with Richie’s broken glasses. He’d spent the whole morning doing that, the plastic still warm enough from his fingers he could feel them through the fabric of his slacks.</p>
<p>The guy was seated at the same concrete table he usually occupied, the one on the opposite side of the courtyard from the bench where Eddie ate his lunch. At the sight of him Eddie froze like a fucking idiot, legs locking up while his face probably morphed into something worth being embarrassed about.</p>
<p>How did one… do this? Whatever <em>this </em>was. Should Eddie just walk up and ask him out? Did they have to get to know each other a little bit first? Could he blurt out, ‘<em>hey do you like guys and also, maybe, do you think you might let me kiss you</em>?’ without coming across as anything but a fucking lunatic?</p>
<p>No probably not.</p>
<p>Fuck.</p>
<p>His pocket buzzed and it jolted Eddie out of his stupor, his knuckles brushing against Richie’s glasses as he fumbled to pull it out.</p>
<p>It was a text from Richie, a picture of the little note Eddie had left him followed by five cry-laughing emojis. The little grey ellipses was present too, proof Richie had more to say on the subject matter. Eddie waited to see what else Richie would say, only partially to stall.</p>
<p>Eddie was expecting some sort of banter. Maybe an insult. His drawing skills were profoundly bad but he thought he had done a good job expressing that it was <em>his </em>frowning face. The cheek scar had to give it away. Again, he wasn’t entirely sure <em>why </em>he’d left Richie a little drawing like they were kids passing notes in English class and for a beat he felt stupidly embarrassed but then Richie finally finished typing out his thought and Eddie’s whole fucking chest jolted when he read the words twice over in quick succession.</p>
<p>
  <em>Richie: ur the fucking cutest spaghetti</em>
</p>
<p>If Eddie’s cheeks weren’t pink already from trying to wind himself up to talk to this nice looking stranger, they were definitely decently warm now. Suddenly angry (at himself more than anyone), Eddie stuffed his phone back in his pocket and, with renewed determination, he stomped across the courtyard.</p>
<p>The guy glanced up at Eddie when he was halfway there and Eddie <em>very nearly </em>pivoted on his feet to do a 180 but <em>no.</em> He was doing this. He had to <em>try</em>. Trying counted, according to his therapist and if/when Eddie fucked this up, he could slither back to his office, close the door, and wallow in self-pity for the rest of the afternoon. It would hardly be the first time he’d done <em>that</em>, though it would be a first in his LA office and maybe the first time he’d have truly earned the melodrama.</p>
<p>Luckily, the guy quirked his head and smiled a bit which Eddie chose to read as encouragement and the last ten steps were only a moderate form of torture.</p>
<p>“Hi,” the guy said, easy as could fucking be once Eddie was hovering awkwardly at the edge of the table.</p>
<p>“Hi,” Eddie said back brusquely – <em>too </em>brusquely – <em>tone it down Kaspbrak</em>. “Mind if I –” He gestured stupidly to the empty bench across from the stranger with his warm Tupperware container.</p>
<p>Luckily the guy smiled again, a nice, normal smile with straight teeth – no overbite or uneven eye crinkles or anything – and answered, “Yeah, go ahead. You work for the bank or the insurance company?”</p>
<p>Thankfully, the guy – Aaron – was a better conversationalist than Eddie (probably because he was a sales rep at the third company in the building and made conversations for a living) and a half hour slid by without much trouble, one third of Eddie’s attention on the leftover chili Richie had packed for him the night before, one third of his attention on his phone buzzing occasionally in his pocket (but he felt like checking his messages would be rude so he ignored it), the last third of his attention on Aaron.</p>
<p>Aaron was okay. No, he was nice. And handsome. Not, like, Ben<em>-</em>handsome, or even Ben-nice, but who fucking was? He didn’t really crack any jokes, which was probably normal, but Eddie had been so warped by Richie he found himself surprised to realize he had spent thirty minutes having a relatively serious discussion about the economy without any weird, sexual puns about supply and demand or the Dow.</p>
<p>The best thing about Aaron was; after he glanced briefly at his watch and packed up the remains of his own lunch, he said, “Hey Ed, how would you feel about getting a drink with me tonight?”</p>
<p>Eddie, surprised and downright impressed with Aaron’s forwardness, let some kind of weird noise escape his mouth unfiltered. He cleared his throat roughly and, after a painful moment of hesitation, asked, “Like, two bros getting drinks after work? Or -” and he really hoped his voice expressed that he wasn’t a fucking homophobe but he <em>was</em> a crass ex-New Yorker and he always sounded bitchy and he’d never fucking done this before so he <em>really </em>put in an effort to be friendly, “Or drinks like a date?”</p>
<p>Aaron eyed him critically and shrugged. “Whichever.”</p>
<p>Eddie, stupidly, cleared his throat again. “It’s a date then.”</p>
<p>Aaron smiled, a flash of even white teeth. “Sounds great! Meet you here at six?”</p>
<p>“Here at six,” Eddie parroted, a little winded, giving Aaron a small wave when he glanced over his shoulder at the door leading back into the building. “<em>Holy fuck</em>.”</p>
<p>He jammed his hand in his pocket to pull out his phone and both the phone and Richie’s glasses came out in his fist but he didn’t waste any time tucking them away before he frantically typed out:</p>
<p>
  <em>Eddie: I have a date tonight.</em>
</p>
<p>He sent that to the group chat, belatedly realizing he’d missed a bunch of messages and scrolling back up to the top. His phone pinged immediately in response to what he’d sent but he took a moment to catch up.</p>
<p>The first message was the picture Richie had taken of Eddie’s post-it note captioned, ‘<em>Self Portrait by Edward Kaspbrak. Ink on paper. 2016.</em>’</p>
<p>The Losers had loved it, apparently, showering it with praise and laughing emojis and hearts.</p>
<p>That picture was shortly followed by another picture of a post-it note, one that Richie must have drawn himself.</p>
<p>
  <em>Richie: i think he looks more like this:</em>
</p>
<p>In Richie’s drawing, Eddie had huge round eyes under a dark brow line and prominent lower eyelashes. It wasn’t a mean drawing, surprisingly – there wasn’t even a single graphic depiction of Eddie’s dick – instead it was actually… kind of cute. Dumb and cute. It looked more like Eddie than the one he’d drawn himself. Eddie loved it and hated it at the same time.</p>
<p>The rest of the Losers responded with their own doodles of Eddie (something that definitely didn’t make Eddie quietly stew in a squirmy, nice kind of feeling but he was extremely not used to people looking at him or thinking about his face or trying to <em>recreate </em>his face in a way that clearly showed affection).</p>
<p>Ben’s was easily Eddie’s favorite because it was the only one worse than his own; so fucking bad that Eddie laughed embarrassingly hard alone and in public. Bev’s and Bill’s were so good they kind of made his heart hurt in that tight, nice way he’d only remembered once the Losers came back into his life. And Mike’s, ridiculously, had a little hand below it, palm flat like a karate chop. What was that supposed to represent?</p>
<p>Then he was caught up, his own message glaring him in the face, and his good humor, for whatever reason, fell a little flat.</p>
<p>
  <em>Eddie: I have a date tonight.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Bev: !!!!!!!!</em>
</p>
<p><em>Mike: </em>👀</p>
<p>
  <em>Ben: Congrats Eddie!</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Bill: Holy shit, Eddie’s got game! Who’s the lucky lady?</em>
</p>
<p>Eddie blinked. It hadn’t occurred to him that he hadn’t informed the other Losers about his burgeoning sexuality, and even though he knew Richie had struggled fiercely with coming out, Eddie didn’t have that same hang up. Probably because he <em>just </em>realized he might be into guys and that was significantly less of an issue in 2016 than it would have been in 1980-something.</p>
<p>And after admitting he had found a near duplicate of his mother and <em>married her</em>, it was hard to imagine the Losers would react with anything but positivity to something that was objectively an emotional upgrade.</p>
<p>Plus ‘<em>Eddie Kaspbrak sucks flamer cocks</em>’ hadn’t been plastered in black ink on any bathroom stalls during a formative part of his youth. Eddie imagined that sort of thing might shape how someone felt about actually wanting to suck flamer cocks.</p>
<p>Eddie’s fingers were steady when he sent back:</p>
<p>
  <em>Eddie: Actually, it’s with a guy. He works in the same building as me. His name is Aaron.</em>
</p>
<p><em>Mike: </em>👀 👀 👀 👀 👀</p>
<p>
  <em>Eddie: Also I’m bi. Probably. Guess I’ll find out.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Ben: That’s great Eddie!</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Bill: Thanks for telling us!</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Mike: Being bi is awesome Eddie! So happy for you!</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Ben: Mike… Am I reading into that or…</em>
</p>
<p><em>Mike: </em>😏</p>
<p>
  <em>Mike: But this is Eddie’s moment</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Eddie: More than happy to share, Mike</em>
</p>
<p>Eddie filed that information away, too aware Richie was somewhere already gloating. So <em>maybe </em>he’d been right about Mike but that didn’t mean Bill felt the same way.</p>
<p>
  <em>Ben: You wonderful men!</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Ben: Today is a good day for love!</em>
</p>
<p><em>Mike: </em>💕 💕 💕 💕</p>
<p>
  <em>Bill: Mike, you too?!</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Mike: I thought you all knew.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Bill: SINCE WHEN?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Mike: A while.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Bev: love all of u SO MUCH! </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Bev: ur all brave and wonderful!</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Bev: now i need details</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Bev: eddie, who asked out who?</em>
</p>
<p>Eddie smiled quietly to himself. Was he ever going to get over the novelty of having friends?</p>
<p>
  <em>Eddie: Technically he asked me out but only because he beat me to it.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Bev: where r u going on ur date?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Eddie: Drinks. Probably somewhere nearby. It’s pretty casual, I think.</em>
</p>
<p>Thinking about the logistics reminded Eddie he should probably tell Richie he might not need dinner. He paused before exiting the group chat, messages still streaming in.</p>
<p>
  <em>Bill: Mike, were you dating guys in high school???</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Mike: Uh, no. We grew up in Derry. As if I needed another target on my back.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Mike: But I had crushes.</em>
</p>
<p><em>Mike: </em>😳 😳 😳 😳</p>
<p>Eddie could practically hear Richie’s voice in his ear crowing, “Yeah, Mikey has a ‘<em>crush</em>’ alright… on <em>Bill</em>!” and, after he smirked quietly to himself, Eddie realized Richie had been notably absent from the group chat. Which was weird. This was exactly the kind of drama Richie would love to stick his fingers in and stir.</p>
<p>Privately, Eddie typed to Richie:</p>
<p>
  <em>Eddie: I probably won’t be out late but don’t wait for me to eat dinner if you get hungry.</em>
</p>
<p>It was rare Richie didn’t immediately respond to one of Eddie’s messages unless he was recording voices so Eddie waited, a little impatiently, for the grey ‘…’ to show up. When it didn’t even though Eddie stopped his phone from dimming twice, he messaged him again.</p>
<p>
  <em>Eddie: I’ll text you if things run long.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Eddie: But I’ll be back before bed, don’t worry.</em>
</p>
<p>Because Richie needed him at night. And that was Eddie’s priority no matter what. Richie had a sleep deficit they needed to start working on catching up because Richie wasn’t young anymore and sleep deprivation could really fuck you up.</p>
<p>Besides Eddie really didn’t think he was ready to <em>have sex </em>– definitely not with someone he’d never spoken to before that day – but he was cautiously optimistic, gunning for a kiss at least, though that raised some questions.</p>
<p>Did adults make out? Did Eddie <em>like </em>making out? Was he down for, like, hand stuff? What if Aaron was expecting more? Should Eddie just do it and get it out of the way? Bust his sex-with-a-man cherry in this, a very low stakes situation, instead of waiting and potentially ruining a better future relationship with his lack of sexual expertise?</p>
<p>Okay, wow, now he might be maybe slightly panicking. Or maybe a lot panicking. What were they symptoms of a heart attack again? He pressed two fingers to his pulse point to feel the racing pound of his blood.</p>
<p>
  <em>Eddie: Real quick, Rich, tell me everything you know about gay sex.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Eddie: Or, like, pointers or something. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Eddie: Cliffnotes. Give me the Cliffnotes of gay sex.</em>
</p>
<p>When Richie still didn’t respond, when the grey ellipses still failed to make an appearance, Eddie started freaking out in earnest, his future potential for guy-on-guy action abruptly dimming in comparison to his worry that something had happened to Richie. The idiot texted from the <em>shower</em>. He was <em>glued </em>to his phone. If he wasn’t answering, something must be wrong.</p>
<p>He flipped back to the group chat to check that none of the messages streaming in there were from Richie but they were mostly Bill and Mike going back and forth about some slightly older guy who worked on Mike’s farm while they were in high school who Bill, apparently, was convinced Mike had dated.</p>
<p>The last ten minutes of Eddie’s lunch break were spent staring down at his phone, waiting for Richie to answer his damn question, a spiral of anxious thoughts swallowing him down.</p>
<p>Maybe Richie was taking a nap (he usually didn’t nap until late afternoon if he was going to nap at all). Or he could be out at the grocery store (they’d gone shopping the day before in preparation for Bev’s visit so that didn’t sound right). Maybe he was driving somewhere (but Eddie knew Richie checked his texts even when he was behind the wheel – it made Eddie absolutely insane because that was so dangerous and then Eddie worried that Richie had smashed his car into a light post, the last thing he ever laid eyes on a text from Eddie about gay sex).</p>
<p>It wasn’t until Eddie trudged back up to his office, closing his door behind him for a little bit of privacy, not exactly stewing in self-pity like he’d expected, that it occurred to him how much he’d been invested in Richie’s reaction to his very anti-climactic coming out. Which was maybe irrational – Richie had <em>been </em>there when Eddie realized he used to have a crush on Bill. Fuck, Richie had been the one to <em>point out </em>that what Eddie had felt <em>was</em> a crush. So it wasn’t like Richie didn’t know Eddie had the potential to like men.</p>
<p>But saying it out loud to the group was kind of a big deal. Going on his first date with a man was an even bigger deal. And Richie hardly ever passed up an opportunity to rib Eddie so his radio silence was <em>noticeable</em>.</p>
<p>Luckily Bill started texting him shortly after Eddie went back to work (<em>work </em>being relative because he only pulled up a few projects on his computer and fiddled with Richie’s broken glasses, too overwhelmed to concentrate).</p>
<p>
  <em>Bill: Is it okay for me to ask how you knew?</em>
</p>
<p>Eddie, still a little disappointed the message hadn’t come bearing Richie’s name, pondered the question for a minute which was apparently long enough for Bill to feel the need to clarify.</p>
<p>
  <em>Bill: That you were into men, too, I mean. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Bill: How did you figure out you were bisexual?</em>
</p>
<p>For a published and respected author, Bill’s messages were always a mess. It was clear his writing was honed in editing, his texts always rambling and painfully endearing. After a moment of consideration, Eddie forced himself to be more honest with his answer than he would have been a few months ago, at least with Bill who he trusted and loved and kind of still saw as his older brother which made Bill asking <em>Eddie </em>for advice a weird childish dream-come-true.</p>
<p>So maybe Eddie felt a little smug when he admitted via text, ‘<em>It was recently pointed out to me that I might have had a crush on you when we were very young</em>,’ before he realized the full ramifications and stared blankly at the words he’d just sent in shock.</p>
<p>His phone was ringing in his hand less than ten seconds later and Eddie half-heartedly debated throwing it across the room.</p>
<p>“You wuh-w-<em>what</em>?!” Bill’s voice sounded from the other end, half-outraged and half-laughing.</p>
<p>“You were a real cute kid, Bill,” Eddie answered defensively, tapping the folded up glasses still in his hand against his desk arhythmically. “I think everyone had a crush on you at some point. Except maybe Richie.”</p>
<p>Eddie was startled by how firmly that thought formed in his head from seemingly nowhere but still he somehow knew it was true. Even though Richie clearly loved Bill, he never put up with Bill’s momentary lapses into bullshit either, arguing Bill out his weird moods and, in most ways, treating Bill more like a brother than a friend.</p>
<p>When Bill got mad at Eddie (which <em>thank fuck</em> wasn’t often) Eddie shriveled up under Bill’s disappointment like a pill-bug and there were long days of silence and pining and often times tears before Bill very solemnly apologized like a miniature adult and Eddie, sniffling, tried to pretend like he hadn’t spent however long without Bill utterly heartbroken.  </p>
<p>But it wasn’t unusual for Richie and Bill to get heated enough to wind up in a screaming match on the short walk from school to home even though they could shut that off in the blink of an eye, Richie inviting Bill to spend the night while both of them were still red-cheeked from their fight.</p>
<p>(Though apparently there had been one fight that didn’t end with the usual reset, one Eddie didn’t witness because his arm was broken and his mother put him under house arrest. One Richie started because Eddie (<em>and Ben</em> his brain dutifully reminded him) had been hurt. Eddie had called Bill to interrogate him some more without Richie there to gruffly brush of his own hurts and Bill haltingly and obviously still ashamed of himself for <em>hitting Richie</em> (which he should be) explained that Richie had absolutely lost his mind over the state of Eddie (<em>and Ben</em>). At Bill’s beach house, Richie had played it off like he was the villain, like he was an asshole who had no interest in saving a bunch of missing kids but Eddie knew it was only because Richie cherished his friends more than anyone, more than <em>himself</em>, and maybe that made him something different than Bill but Eddie selfishly kind of liked being one of Richie’s priorities.)</p>
<p>In some ways Eddie had been a little jealous of the Richie/Bill dynamic when he was thirteen – they were both the bravest of the original four (Bev obviously usurped both of them when she showed up), breaking rules at school and watching scary movies well before Eddie could stomach them and wandering into a giant sewer pipe to look for <em>dead fucking bodies </em>like that was a normal summertime activity. When Eddie was a kid, Bill’s bravery seemed shiny and bright and righteous while Eddie attributed Richie’s to bluster and a lack of forward thinking skills.</p>
<p>As an adult, Eddie could more clearly see the two of them had a self-destructive edge that united them, particularly noticeable in Bill after Georgie disappeared and upsettingly present in Richie since the moment Eddie first laid eyes on him.</p>
<p>“You know what,” Eddie added, breaking himself out of his winding thoughts, “I bet Ben didn’t have a crush on you either. But, you know, according to Richie he only ever had eyes for Bev so don’t take that personally.”</p>
<p>Bill hummed on the other end of the line and after a slightly uncomfortable pause asked, “Y-you don’t <em>still</em> –”</p>
<p>“<em>No</em>,” Eddie answered emphatically, laughing again even harder. At Bill’s fake little noise of offense, Eddie hurried to say, “You’re a great guy, Bill, but you’re not really my type.”</p>
<p>“So you h-have a tuh-type?”</p>
<p>Broad shoulders flashed behind Eddie’s closed eyelids, the echo of a braying laugh ringing in his ears.</p>
<p>“Believe it or not, <em>married men</em> aren’t at the top of my fucking list.” Bill snorted and Eddie grinned in self-satisfaction.</p>
<p>Bill had been over at the house two days earlier for dinner, Richie reading aloud from <em>Harry Potter </em>while Eddie and Bill mutilated a recipe for chili that still turned out okay after a few hours in the slow cooker. Afterwards, the three of them pounded a few tequila shots and got heated over a game of poker which they were all fucking horrible at. Eddie still somehow lost even though he snuck a few peaks at Richie’s cards while he wasn’t looking which was absolute bullshit.</p>
<p>Bill was <em>always </em>coming over - he had his own key and spent the night at least once a week (mostly more), but somehow Eddie still fiercely thought ‘<em>I miss you</em>,’ the way he missed all the Losers any time when they weren’t lined up right in front of him.</p>
<p>Fuck, he missed <em>Richie </em>and they were together more than they were apart.</p>
<p>“Jesus, d-did all of you guys just <em>know</em>?” Bill asked, sounding winded. “Even wuh-w-when you were a k-kid?”</p>
<p>“Oh, no fucking way, dude,” Eddie answered immediately. “I had <em>no </em>fucking idea. I mean, the signs were there – this guy in college blew me once –”</p>
<p>“<em>Jesus</em>, Eddie!” Bill sounded <em>scandalized </em>and weirdly, Eddie was thrilled he had the ability to shock someone, maybe especially Bill who still had a bit of that extra-adult glow, what with his movie star wife and a respectable career that made him semi-famous (because being famous for making dick jokes wasn’t fucking <em>respectable</em>, it was absurd).</p>
<p>“- and I thought about that blow job more than I ever thought about sex with my wife - though I guess that’s a whole different fucking thing –”</p>
<p>“Clown amnesia,” Bill supplied seamlessly.</p>
<p>“Right?” Eddie agreed heartily. “But no, Bill. Whatever the fuck this is, it’s totally new information for me.”</p>
<p>Bill sighed heavily. “Isn’t that tuh-t-t-t –” he grunted, a sharp aggravated noise. “<em>Terrifying</em>? Realizing there’s suh-something about yourself you didn’t <em>know</em>?”</p>
<p>“Ever since eighteen years of previously forgotten memories slammed back into my brain like a freight train, I’ve been functioning under the assumption there’s <em>a lot </em>about myself I don’t know. I’m not even allergic to cashews, Bill, can you fucking believe that? Or wheat or soy or peanuts or grass or cats or any of the other shit I’ve been avoiding my whole fucking life. I got a test to check. And I never had fucking <em>asthma </em>either, I have anxiety.”</p>
<p>“Hey man, juh-join the club,” Bill said blithely, a curl of humor in his voice.</p>
<p>“Liking guys at least is a good surprise. Doubles my dating pool.” Bill snorted again, loud and clearly unexpectedly. “And like, is that scary? Yes. Do I have any fucking idea what to do with <em>someone else’s dick</em>? Won’t know until I try it, I guess. Richie’s keeping his wealth of gay secrets to himself, the selfish asshole.”</p>
<p>Bill laughed <em>hard </em>at that which was nice – Eddie didn’t think he was particularly funny but the Losers did. Bill did. Richie did. And it felt good, making people laugh instead of making them miserable. Eddie <em>tap tap tapped </em>the broken glasses against his desk.</p>
<p>“I duh-don’t think <em>Richie </em>is the one to go to for that kind of advice,” Bill said, a smile obvious in his voice.</p>
<p>“Who the fuck else do we know that’s had actual penis-to-penis contact?”</p>
<p>“<em>Mike</em>, apparently,” Bill answered immediately, emphatically, naked with shock. Eddie stiffened in his ergonomic desk chair, wishing desperately Richie was in the room and listening in on the call because something was going on here. Something to do with Richie’s claims (that Eddie still couldn’t <em>quite </em>believe) that Bill and Mike were… something. That maybe <em>Bill </em>was something <em>for </em>Mike.</p>
<p>Goddamnit, where the fuck was Richie when Eddie needed him?</p>
<p>“You think Mike would give me better advice?” Eddie wondered, aiming for neutral which only made his voice weird and faintly strained. If Bill noticed, he didn’t comment on it.</p>
<p>“Than <em>Richie</em>? Yuh-yeah, obviously,” Bill scoffed, and Eddie frowned. Okay, Richie wasn’t <em>that </em>bad, why was Bill being a jerk? “M-Mike is… you know…” Eddie’s eyes practically bugged out of his head in anticipation but after a drag of time that felt like an eternity, Bill lamely finished, “…Mike,” like that somehow was an answer in and of itself.</p>
<p>Oh fuck. Bill <em>did </em>have a crush. Eddie needed to call Richie, like <em>now</em>.</p>
<p>“A-anyways,” Bill coughed a little, an awkward noise that, in Eddie’s mind, didn’t suit him at all. “Wuh-when does Bev get in tomorrow?”</p>
<p>“Early,” Eddie answered robotically, already imagining how he’d explain this conversation to Richie. “But she’ll be working ‘til evening. Richie’s cooking.”</p>
<p>“Thank fuck,” Bill hummed, halfway distracted. Neither he nor Eddie had anything close to Richie’s level of skill in the kitchen. “I’ll head over after a call with muh-my editor, late afternoon probably.”</p>
<p>“Sounds good.”</p>
<p>“See you tomorrow.”</p>
<p>“See you.”</p>
<p>Eddie made <em>extra </em>sure he’d hung up fully with Bill before he leaned back in his desk chair and stifled a faintly embarrassing giggle, his fingers pulling up Richie’s number automatically.</p>
<p>By the fifth ring, Eddie remembered Richie’s uncharacteristic silence and his excitement to gossip over Bill melted back into concern, exacerbated by Richie’s truly awful voicemail recording in which he did a spot on impression of Janine from <em>Ghostbusters</em>.</p>
<p>“Hey, Richie, where the fuck are you, bro?” Eddie launched into after the beep. “I just had a super weird and fucking <em>hilarious </em>conversation with Bill about Mike so you better not have slipped in the shower and fucking brained yourself. I’m not saying this in a fucking voicemail because if you have a recording of me saying –” <em>you were right</em>, “- <em>no</em>, I’m not gonna fucking say it – you’ll never let me live it down so call me back, asshole. And answer your fucking texts.”</p>
<p>Eddie glowered down at his phone after he’d disconnected the call, <em>willing </em>Richie’s name to appear on the screen. When it didn’t after a full three minutes of staring, Eddie huffed out a breath, dropped both phone and broken glasses onto his desk, and turned back to his computer, trying to focus on work.</p>
<p>Maybe Richie was busy.</p>
<p>That was possible. It wasn’t like Eddie knew <em>everything </em>Richie got up to on the days Eddie went into the office. Richie usually kept him updated though – sent pictures of whatever part of the house he was working on or the yard if it was a nice day and he was laying out in the hammock. He’d message him with memes or tweets or weird shit from the internet if he was scrolling through his phone. He’d ask Eddie’s opinions on jokes if he was trying to write and occasionally went quiet if he was <em>successfully </em>writing but those were usually preceded by about a million ‘<em>just kill me</em>’ texts and the quiet after that was a good thing that Eddie knew not to disturb. And if Richie had a meeting with Steve or an audition or lines to record, those were dutifully filled into the calendar in the kitchen which Eddie consulted every morning while any last minute appointments Richie usually notified Eddie about via text.</p>
<p>Objectively, Richie was needy. He always had been. When he was nine and would get lost if someone wasn’t holding his hand or when he was thirteen and a clown was trying to eat them and he was screaming ‘<em>look at me</em>’ like eye contact would spare them a grisly end or when he eighteen and he got too drunk at a Halloween party and wound up hunched over the bushes puking his guts out, moaning Eddie’s name between heaving gags like Eddie could magically make him feel better.</p>
<p>And, now that they knew each other in a world where cell phones existed, Richie was almost constantly in touch. Seeking validation. Trying to make Eddie laugh. Just <em>existing </em>in a place where Eddie could be aware of him at nearly all hours of the day.</p>
<p>It probably should have been annoying but it wasn’t.</p>
<p>On the advice of his therapist, Eddie was working on trying not to compare Richie to Myra. It wasn’t healthy and it wasn’t fair to anyone involved and deep down, Eddie understood that. But sometimes he couldn’t help it, especially when the behavior that Myra had exhibited so closely mirrored Richie’s but Eddie felt so radically different about it.</p>
<p>Then again, Myra’s endless stream of texts were invasive. ‘<em>Have you taken your pills, Eddie-bear.</em>’ ‘<em>Have you eaten lunch, Eddie-bear.</em>’ ‘<em>You know you can’t stay out late, you need your sleep Eddie-bear.</em>’ They were a constant reminder that Eddie didn’t know how to look after himself, that he was fragile, that he needed Myra because he couldn’t be trusted to be left on his own.</p>
<p>Richie’s messages were funny. And stupid. And sometimes sweet. They made Eddie smile or roll his eyes or inspire him to take pictures of his own surroundings so the two of them could compare. They made<em> him</em> feel liked and needed, by Richie at least, even if it was only because Richie was bored and seeking entertainment. That anyone found Eddie entertaining at all was still a pleasantly new sensation and that it was Richie (who was endlessly charismatic and charming and the center of every room he entered) was an oddly addictive feeling.</p>
<p>Maybe that made them a little co-dependent.</p>
<p>But <em>all </em>of the Losers were.</p>
<p>Earlier in the month, Bev and Ben lost reception for three days somewhere between Italy and Spain and Bill had nearly flown out to Barcelona and chartered a ship to organize a search party before Ben had called sounding harried but fully alive and well. It wasn’t until Bill saw the both of them on a video call (windswept and sunburnt and little tired looking from a storm that kept them up a two nights in a row) that Bill finally unclenched.</p>
<p>And when Bev hung up after promising to stay closer to shore and make contact <em>every day no matter what</em>, Bill had very quietly sobbed, sandwiched between Eddie and Richie on the couch of their living room, only quieting down once Richie had called up Mike and put him on speaker phone so all of them could revel in his soothing reassurances and comforting, slightly rambling stories about the hike he’d taken through Kisatchie National Park.</p>
<p>The Losers had Problems. Big fucking surprise. They’d been through worldview-upheaving trauma <em>twice </em>together – the kind of shit they couldn’t fully disclose to even their therapists – so there was no way they were walking away emotionally stable. If co-dependency was the worst of what they were left with, Eddie counted that as a win.</p>
<p>And it wasn’t <em>new </em>territory to be worried about Richie but the more Eddie was left to stew in his own thoughts and the minutes trickling by turning into <em>hours</em> without Richie getting back to him, the deeper Eddie spiraled into himself.</p>
<p>Richie was an adult. He could take care of himself. Eddie didn’t want to turn into his mother who worried constantly when Eddie wasn’t within grabbing distance, who called to check up on him at school and at friend’s houses and when Eddie ‘<em>spent too much time up in his room</em>.’ Richie was allowed his privacy.</p>
<p>But, as five ‘o’clock came and went without word from Richie, Eddie couldn’t <em>help </em>but worry. This was out of character. Extremely so. Richie <em>never </em>shut up and the last thing he’d contributed (a series of cry-laughing emojis and ‘<em>MIKE INCLUDED THE LITTLE CHOPPY HANDS</em>’ in response to Mike’s doodle in the group chat) didn’t explain his absence.</p>
<p>The last time Eddie had let Richie’s strange behavior go unmentioned (the naps, the dark circles under his eyes, the unexpected 7ams spent together before Eddie left for work even though Richie <em>hated </em>mornings), it had turned out to be kind of a big deal. The Deadlight dreams. Eddie shuddered just imagining them. The flashback nightmares Eddie had were bad but they were also intangible in the way dreams tended to be – foggy and distant and more emotional than literal.</p>
<p>Thanks to the Deadlights, Richie spent a not insignificant amount of nights <em>back in the cistern</em>. Back in that cave. And now, the day after he’d spilled his guts to Eddie and opened up a sliver of vulnerability, he fell off the grid. Considering the circumstances, it wasn’t <em>wrong </em>for Eddie to be worried about him, right? That didn’t make him Sonia Kaspbrak’s Fucking Shadow, right?</p>
<p>By 5:30 he texted Bill asking in a hopefully roundabout way if he’d heard anything from Richie (he didn’t want Bill worrying too when it was probably nothing - Richie was likely asleep or he’d dropped his phone in the toilet or he got so sucked into some stupid fucking TV show that he forgot to check his messages) but Bill didn’t get back to him (a much more common event; when Bill was writing he was practically dead to the world outside his computer).</p>
<p>By 5:45, Eddie was a mess. More of a mess than usual. His thoughts were bouncing between hating himself for being so like his mother and worrying sick over Richie. And he had a date. <em>He had a date</em>. And he hadn’t texted Mike about hooking up with guys because that was, admittedly, a pretty embarrassing thing to ask another adult man who wasn’t Richie. So he had <em>no </em>game plan for his evening with Aaron that wasn’t straight up fucking panic.</p>
<p>At the very least, he had restrained himself from sending Richie a barrage of texts. Eddie figured he could avoid becoming his mother so long as he didn’t make his worrying <em>Richie’s</em> problem. He wouldn’t <em>smother </em>Richie. He was just trying to be a concerned friend.</p>
<p>And as a concerned friend, Eddie decided it was acceptable to send one lightly anxious text a full five hours after the last message he’d left.</p>
<p>
  <em>Eddie: Hey man, I’m about to head out for my date but I haven’t heard from you all day. Are you okay?</em>
</p>
<p>There. That was… acceptable. And if Richie didn’t get back to him by seven, he’d cut his date short and go home and hopefully not find Richie drowned in the pool or in a puddle of his own blood or fucking <em>kidnapped </em>or something (luckily Richie was a pretty big guy, kidnapping him probably wouldn’t be easy but he was also <em>exactly </em>the kind of idiot who would be lured into a car by the promise of puppies, even at forty fucking years old).</p>
<p>Eddie literally jolted to his feet when his phone vibrated in his hand.</p>
<p>
  <em>Richie: fck yur on your date? wan t me to clrear out of hre?</em>
</p>
<p>Eddie stared at the message for a full minute, anxiety burning through every spare calorie left over from lunch. Richie didn’t make a <em>huge </em>effort to spell correctly in texts (half the time doing a bad job of it seemingly just to piss Eddie off) but this was <em>noticeably </em>bad. What was going on?</p>
<p>
  <em>Eddie: Clear out of where?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Richie: teh house</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Eddie: You’re home?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Richie: shuld i not b?</em>
</p>
<p>Was he… was Richie <em>drunk</em>?</p>
<p>
  <em>Eddie: No, stay there.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Richie: i cn go</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Eddie: Why would you go?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Richie: f u wana bring ur date hom</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Richie: to hook up</em>
</p>
<p><em>Richie: get that </em>╰⋃╯</p>
<p>Richie was not okay. Or, well, he was drunk on a Thursday before six. Which wasn’t <em>the worst</em> thing he could be. But it wasn’t like he was coming from an early work dinner or hanging out with Bill. He was, as far as Eddie knew, alone. Alone and drunk at home. This was something new, or maybe not <em>new</em> (Eddie was aware Richie had substance abuse issues for a lot of his life) but he hadn’t done anything like this since they’d come back to LA together from Derry. It was one of the many things Richie had clearly been working on.</p>
<p>And he’d been doing so well.</p>
<p>
  <em>Eddie: Stay in the fucking house, Rich.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Eddie: I’m canceling my date, I’ll be home in 40.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Richie: dnt cancel</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Richie: or fck it</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Richie: do</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Richie: no dnt</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Richie: im fine</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Richie: im drnking with Bev</em>
</p>
<p>Eddie blinked.</p>
<p>
  <em>Eddie: Did she get in early?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Richie: no ovr facetim</em>
</p>
<p>That was… better than drinking alone. Marginally. But Bev would be in town <em>tomorrow</em>. Why not wait until then?</p>
<p>
  <em>Richie: goon ur date</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Richie: go on*</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Richie: go on ur date</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Richie: ill be hre whn u get home</em>
</p>
<p>Still simmering with worry (which was better than the rapid boil he’d been at fifteen minutes ago) Eddie sighed and scrubbed his face. His phone clock read 5:57.</p>
<p>Richie was an adult. He didn’t need Eddie to take care of him. If he wanted to get drunk at home while facetiming his friend who would be in town <em>tomorrow</em>, he was allowed. Even if everything about that screamed bad news.</p>
<p>Eddie swiped over to his private chat with Bev.</p>
<p>
  <em>Eddie: Is Richie okay?</em>
</p>
<p>It took her a minute to respond, Eddie assumed because she was chatting with Richie.</p>
<p>
  <em>Bev: its under control</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Bev: enjoy ur date!</em>
</p>
<p>‘It’s under control’ wasn’t really an answer. But his phone now read 5:59 and if he was going to test of the waters by going out on a date with Aaron, he should get down to the courtyard now.</p>
<p>After a long moment of hesitation, Eddie swiped back to his conversation with Richie.</p>
<p>
  <em>Eddie: I’ll be home before 9.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Eddie: Drink a glass of water. And another one between every drink from this point forward. </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Richie: k</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Richie: good luck on ur date</em>
</p>
<p><em>Richie: </em>😘</p>
<p>Richie probably wouldn’t die in three hours. He could definitely get alcohol poisoning (if he hadn’t already) and he could pass out and choke on his own vomit but Bev said it was ‘<em>under control</em>’, whatever the fuck that meant.</p>
<p>And Richie was the whole the reason Eddie was going on this date in the first place. The whole point was to get this new desire to kiss a guy out of his system so Eddie wouldn’t stupidly try to mash his face against Richie’s the next time he did something kind of nice or kind of funny or kind of stupid which pretty much covered all the things Richie did.</p>
<p>With new resolve, Eddie tucked his laptop into his bag, jogged down the stairs, and waved hopefully only a little awkwardly at Aaron where he sat waiting, a nice even smile lighting up his face at the sight of Eddie.</p>
<p>Richie would be fine. <em>Eddie </em>would be fine. Everything was under control.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Happy New Year!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Chapter Seventeen</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: past suicidal thoughts, drug and alcohol dependencies, self-destructive behavior , alcohol consumption, very broad mentions of Bev’s abusive ex, depression, mentions of underage consenting sex acts, a smattering of infidelity, Richie has a history of making bad sex choices, Sonia’s control issues, guys this is pretty much the truth or dare chapter except it’s 100% truth</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>Eddie: I have a date tonight.</em>
</p><p>“<em>Richie</em>?” Bev asked, no doubt hearing the thump of the stupid huge Otter case Eddie insisted he use absorbing the small fall from Richie’s hand to the kitchen counter. “You still there?”</p><p>“<em>What the fuck</em> –” he mumbled back senselessly. His cursed phone had landed face up and Eddie’s message practically stabbed him in the face. Bev had immediately responded with a string of exclamation marks and then, assumedly, called Richie to celebrate because she thought the date was with <em>him</em> but it wasn’t. He hadn’t. “Bev, I <em>didn’t</em> –”</p><p>Bev, bless her fucking heart, got the picture after only a few moments pause.</p><p>“If not – I thought… but then <em>WHO</em>?!” she demanded, her indignation a slight balm. “Eddie! What the <em>heck</em>!”</p><p>Almost as if in answer, the group chat filled up with responses.</p><p>
  <em>Bill: Holy shit, Eddie’s got game! Who’s the lucky lady?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eddie: Actually, it’s with a guy. He works in the same building as me. His name is Aaron.</em>
</p><p>Bev gasped, the sound tight and small, but Richie heard it all the same over speaker phone. The accompanying, pitying, “<em>Oh, Richie</em>,” she hummed was an addition Richie could have really done without.</p><p>Eddie was going on a date. With a guy.</p><p>This had to be some sort of divine punishment.</p><p>Not that Richie believed in a higher power (outside of, apparently, eldritch monsters so powerful and strange and magic they border godhood). But Richie<em> did</em> kill a man and let his friends drop the body down a sewer hole and since that wound up not having any <em>actual </em>consequences (so far, jesus, he was tempting fate just <em>thinking </em>about that shit), it made sense if karma came to bite him in the ass.</p><p>Because Richie’s brain hated him, he immediately stumbled into a hole of hypotheticals. If Richie had asked Eddie out <em>yesterday</em> while they were lying in the same bed and whispering in the dark and saying everything but ‘<em>I fucking love you</em>’ to each other, could he have slid in under the wire? He <em>hadn’t </em>said anything then because he wasn’t sure Eddie would entertain the thought of being with someone who was attached to a penis (as well as a whole slew of emotional baggage more specific to Richie; see his therapist’s notes for details), but here was confirmed proof.</p><p>Eddie Kaspbrak <em>did </em>like boys.</p><p>He just didn’t like <em>Richie</em>.</p><p>The messages continued, his phone buzzing merrily in his hand.</p><p><em>Mike: </em>👀 👀 👀 👀 👀</p><p>
  <em>Eddie: Also I’m bi. Probably. Guess I’ll find out.</em>
</p><p>Richie’s eyes blurred under the threat of tears. Eddie was so fucking brave. He’d sat with that information for, what? A month? Maybe less? And here he was telling the Losers and going out in public <em>on a date</em>. <em>With a man</em>.</p><p>It had taken Richie <em>thirty-one years</em> to come out of the closet and the most public intimacy he’d ever achieved with a man was when he was too plastered to properly lock a hotel room door and Steve walked in. And now he was forty and <em>out</em> but still one huge fucking mess.</p><p>Fuck, how had Richie entertained for a single second the possibility that Eddie might choose <em>him</em>? Eddie was so far out of his league he was on another planet.</p><p>As Richie dissolved into a self-loathing puddle, the messages continued streaming into the group chat. Mike came out as bi too (and Bill clearly lost his mind at the news, point for Richie, he was totally going to gloat about that when Eddie… got back… from his <em>date</em>………) and everyone was full of love and support and it was fucking great, really, just fucking peachy.</p><p>It was <em>so </em>awesome that everyone was figuring out their sexuality and speaking their truth and somehow no one was throwing up or sending their career in a downward spiral because of it or spending their whole lives repressed and hating themselves. That was a good thing. For everyone.</p><p>Richie, on the other hand, felt like shit for a variety of reasons but that wasn’t anything new.</p><p>“<em>Hun</em>,” Bev murmured, and Richie’s vision blurred with tears. That was a new Bev thing - an Adult Bev thing - calling Richie ‘<em>hun</em>.’ Young Bev would have sooner called him ‘shit head’ or ‘asshole’ or just ‘Richie’ if she were trying to be gentle with him which wasn't often. Young Richie didn't inspire a lot of gentleness and Young Bev didn’t have much to give.</p><p>Richie couldn't tell if the ‘<em>hun</em>’ was slightly patronizing but he didn't much care. He was so desperate for affection he'd soak up any endearment given to him especially right now. It wasn't an accident he doled out nicknames like they were backstage passes to his heart. That was his love language and maybe someone had finally figured it out.</p><p>“Ah,” Richie hummed, clearing his throat. Sounding slightly okay wasn’t as hard as he thought it would be. “What’s up, Bev?”</p><p>“Do you want the details or do you want to let Bill take over the chat by interrogating Mike?”</p><p>That was nice of her to ask.</p><p>“I uh –”</p><p>“Cause I can pry. Find out who this <em>Aaron </em>guy is,” and wow, Bev was a fucking champ, the way she acted like it wasn’t just <em>Richie </em>writhing with barely suppressed emotions towards the random man Eddie had never once mentioned before but was now going out with on a date.</p><p>Richie mulled that over for a long minute before he decided, “You don’t –”</p><p>“- Too late,” Bev interrupted, and a new stream of messages blipped into the group chat.</p><p>
  <em>Bev: love all of u SO MUCH! </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bev: ur all brave and wonderful!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bev: now i need details</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bev: eddie, who asked out who?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eddie: Technically he asked me out but only because he beat me to it.                       </em>
</p><p>Oh. That was just. Awesome.</p><p>Richie hadn’t even <em>considered </em>the possibility that it might have been <em>Eddie</em> who made the first move. For fuck’s sake, when they were ten and Eddie developed a school-boy crush on a girl in their class, he hardly ever worked up the nerve to <em>talk </em>to her and his stand-offish behavior translated so easily into <em>being a jerk </em>that she built up a grudge and his tiny little baby heart was crushed before they could do anything as risqué as trading cookies at lunch or holding hands during recess.</p><p>Was some of that tension Richie’s fault for teasing Eddie so mercilessly that his tongue got tied anytime he was in her company? Maybe. Was Richie sorry about that? Ten-year-old Richie <em>certainly </em>wasn’t. He’d counted that as a success.</p><p>But sabotaging Eddie’s relationships <em>now</em> veered into some real fucked up territory. And it wasn’t even like Richie was <em>jealous </em>the way he had been when he was ten and every emotion was boiled down to its purest form.</p><p>He was just… <em>sad</em>.</p><p>After thirty years, Richie knew well enough that the way he felt about Eddie wasn’t going to <em>go away</em>, no matter how much he sometimes wished it would. And seeing a future spin out in front of him where Eddie went on dates and brought people home and maybe one day remarried was a deeply depressing vision.</p><p>But, when the spectrum of Richie’s <em>visions </em>included Eddie being <em>impaled</em> literally right in front of him, he had to admit he would much rather watch Eddie cavort with a million other men than see the light fade from his eyes as he bled to death.</p><p>“See hun, it’s not even a big deal,” Bev said, breaking him out of his pity-party, sounding way too confident. “Drinks after work? That’s <em>nothing</em>. You can still tell him, Richie. You <em>should </em>still tell him. I bet if you called -”</p><p>“I’m gonna stop you right there,” Richie said flatly. <em>Fuck </em>Richie’s Big Revelation and Attempt at Emotional Growth. What had he been fucking <em>thinking</em>? “I’m pretty sure the Losers max out at a certain point, you know? Only one huge revelations per day and we’ve already surpassed quota.”</p><p>Bev sounded <em>highly </em>skeptical when she hedged, “So you’re okay with this?”</p><p>“Yeah!” Richie said, and his voice sounded so fake-ly cheery he kind of wanted to find a knife and fall on top of it. “Yeah,” he tried again, voice still high and weird. <em>Fuck</em>. “Eddie’s going on a date. Getting back on the horse. The sex horse. No, that sounded weird, he’s getting back in the sex saddle – nope, still weird. Whatever. <em>But</em>, big plus, at the very least this guy probably doesn’t come in Sonia Kaspbrak 2.0 packaging –”</p><p>“Beep beep, Richie,” Bev said automatically, not even that annoyed. “Really, are you taking this okay?”</p><p>Richie turned his phone off speaker, his hands finally steady enough to hold it to his ear again, thank <em>fuck </em>because he couldn’t stare at the group chat any longer without losing his mind. “You didn’t used to demand this much sincerity, Ringwald. What the fuck happened to you?”</p><p>“I started dating Ben.”</p><p>“Gross.”</p><p>“And I spent my whole marriage keeping everything <em>in </em>because that was safer but now I’m fucking over that. So spill.”</p><p>“Hold up, you don’t get to use the ‘<em>I was in an abusive relationship</em>’ card on me! That’s not fucking fair.”</p><p>“Too bad for you cause I get to use that card however I want. Now tell me your feelings. All of them.”</p><p>“Kind of you to think the Trashmouth has any –”</p><p>“<em>Richie</em>…”</p><p>“Oh my fucking god, <em>fine</em>.” Richie sighed and dragged his sorry ass over to the couch so he could flop onto it face first, his voice a little muffled when he said, “I’m not <em>great </em>but it’s fine. I missed my window. Or maybe there was no window and I was just fucking digging a hole in a cement wall with a spoon hoping to come out the other side.”</p><p>“It’s one date, honey. It probably doesn’t mean anything. They’re getting drinks after work, not proposing to each other.”</p><p>Richie made noise that might have been a sigh or might have been a groan. With his face pushed into the couch cushion, it all sounded the same.</p><p>“Where did all the confidence from this morning go?” she asked and Richie scoffed.</p><p>“It was a fluke.”</p><p>“Something happened, didn’t it? What made you want to tell him?”</p><p>“It’s not even…” Richie rolled his eyes at himself. At how stupid he’d been this morning. God, one good night of sleep and apparently he turned into a crazy person. “I just read the signals wrong, okay. Let’s leave it at that.”</p><p>“So there were <em>signals</em>…” Bev asked leadingly and Richie groaned again.</p><p>“Nope!” Richie said, with all the cheer he could muster. “Just delusions.”</p><p>Richie really wanted a drink. Where was the closest bar? He hadn’t lived in the new house long enough to google that yet which was a certain sort of accomplishment but one hard to appreciate when he was about to be a disappointment to himself and everyone who knew him. He did know there was a dispensary on the way towards civilization where he could pick up a few joints (Bill usually supplied the weed, that fucking stoner) but the idea of getting a little crossfaded sounded really tempting at the moment.</p><p>Richie <em>definitely </em>didn’t think about the few comedy buddies he usually hung out with when he was <em>real </em>low, the ones who were always down to do anything to distract each other from their respective depressions. Because those guys were bad news – the last time he dove deep into that circle, he wound up getting so messed up that driving his car off a cliff along the PCH seemed like a logical thing to do so… maybe hanging out with them wasn’t the best idea.</p><p>But it had been a while since Richie felt so <em>alone</em>. Not since the clown, really. And you’d think a lifetime of loneliness would outweigh the two and a half months he’d had with friends but Richie was an addict at heart and human affection his biggest vice.</p><p>And sure, Bev was on the phone with him <em>now </em>but eventually she’d hang up and go back to her life and Richie would be left to contend with the clamoring thoughts in his head and <em>wow </em>he was not looking forward to that.</p><p>After what had to be at least a minute of solid silence, nothing but the huffs of their breathing breaking the quiet, Bev said, “So…” and just the sound of it made Richie want to shrivel up.</p><p>“So what, Marsh?”</p><p>“You aren’t going to do anything stupid, are you?” she asked and Richie huffed out a laugh.</p><p>“I just <em>told </em>you, I’m not gonna fucking say anything to Eddie and that’s the stupidest thing I could do –”</p><p>“I meant to yourself.”</p><p>“<em>Oh</em>,” the sound was punched out of him between one exhale and the next. Fucking Beverly Marsh. “<em>No</em>,” Richie insisted. True, he’d <em>considered </em>some things that maybe weren’t on the up and up but that wasn’t the same as doing them. Intrusive thoughts didn’t count.</p><p>“You’re sure?”</p><p>“Do you think I’m a fucking <em>monster</em>?” Richie asked, a bite to his voice Bev probably didn’t deserve. “You think I’m gonna fucking - when <em>Stan</em> -” he cut himself off with a gasp that might have been about 80% sob.</p><p>“Fuck, Richie, don’t cry,” Bev murmured soothingly. “Please hun, I didn’t mean – I’m just – you have a <em>history </em>and I –”</p><p>Richie cried a little harder at that. Okay yeah, so his previous self-destructive habits were well documented in the news. His Wikipedia page had a whole subsection labeled ‘<em>Substance Abuse</em>’ so that was cool. And, for the most part, Richie didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought of the admittedly erratic behavior he’d exhibited in the 2000’s when he wasn’t so much plummeting towards rock bottom as he was trapped in a black void with no discernable up or down.</p><p>But the Losers were different. He cared about what they thought about him. He didn’t <em>love </em>the idea that Bev probably knew he’d driven his car off a cliff. That she probably knew about the month he spent in rehab only to check himself out early to record a special while in a complete blackout that ended, two weeks later, with him in the back of a police cruiser in Chicago. Hell, she worked in an industry adjacent to entertainment so she might have even heard some of the seedier rumors about his disastrous and short lived sexcapades.</p><p>And<em> that</em> was just a real fucking bummer.</p><p>His phone pinged with a message and, half because he could barely handle Bev’s soft shushing and quiet reassurance, he pulled his phone away to see what it said.</p><p>
  <em>Eddie: Real quick, Rich, tell me everything you know about gay sex.             </em>
</p><p>Oh<em> fuck</em>.</p><p>A strangled noise burbled out of Richie, one he would deny being capable of making in any other circumstance.</p><p>Eddie was trying to –</p><p>Richie’s mind blanked, probably to protect itself from self-destructing.</p><p>As he stared dazedly at the screen, another message came in. Then another.</p><p>
  <em>Eddie: Or, like, pointers or something. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Eddie: Cliffnotes. Give me the Cliffnotes of gay sex.</em>
</p><p>“I’ve gotta go,” Richie said to Bev, feeling radically disconnected from himself. A bar sounded <em>great </em>right now. A bar and, like, <em>a lot </em>of booze. Enough booze so that when he got back home, he could pass out to avoid being alone with his own thoughts and maybe, hopefully, forget everything about today had ever happened.</p><p>“<em>Richie</em>,” Bev sounded alert and concerned. She was in New York at the moment, last stop before she flew out to visit tomorrow. She was working through some divorce stuff – Richie fundamentally couldn’t understand the finer details of anything that required a lawyer – and he suddenly felt like the biggest pile of crap for unloading all <em>this </em>on her when she was going through something much worse than finding out her crush liked someone else.</p><p>That his crush was trying to have <em>sex </em>with someone else.</p><p>Some guy from his office named <em>Aaron</em>. Fucking Aaron.</p><p>“I’ve got this handled, Bev,” he promised but his nose was still stuffed up with snot. “I’ll let you go. You can get back to dismantling the patriarchy and holding Ben in your weirdly buff arms.”</p><p>“Richie, stay on the phone with me,” Bev demanded, soft but assertive. “What happened?”</p><p>Richie cleared his throat, scrubbing his tears away and lurching to his feet.</p><p>If he was going to a bar, he had to get dressed and grab his wallet. He’d take a Lyft but he’d need his house keys and he should double check to make sure the back door was locked and all the windows were closed.</p><p>Eddie would be really pissed if someone broke in all because Richie forgot to close up tight on his way to get plastered.</p><p>Sounding more normal that he thought he was capable of, Richie laughed a little bit. “Eddie just asked me for sex advice.”</p><p>Bev’s answering gasp was a little reassuring.</p><p>“I know, right?” Richie went on, playing it like a joke. Like it was funny. Like it was anything but incredibly devastating. “Asking <em>me </em>for tips? What was he thinking?”</p><p>“<em>Richie</em>…”</p><p>“No, come on Bev, don’t be like that,” he sing-songed. “I’m okay. Really. I’m fucking fantastic.”</p><p>And the worst thing was that Richie had <em>no fucking right </em>to feel like garbage. Eddie was allowed to get his dick wet however he wanted with absolutely no input from anyone let alone <em>Richie</em> who had no claim to him at all.</p><p>Just cause Richie was trying to <em>be a better person </em>or whatever, that didn’t make him a viable option for love. There was too much shit in his past, he’d hurt too many people and made a mess of everything he touched. Richie wasn’t the one who got the guy at the end of the story. Fuck, even casting directors knew that, always shunting him off to side-kick or rival or sexless stoner best friend.</p><p>But Eddie could do a lot better than that and it was <em>no </em>fucking business of Richie’s either way. It sure as fuck didn’t <em>feel </em>like it wasn’t his business but that was just a nasty trick this cohabitating gimmick was pulling on him and since he’d sooner – <em>nope don’t think like that</em> – since he wasn’t giving up living with Eddie for anything, he had to learn how to deal with this shit.</p><p>“So, this was a great chat,” Richie concluded, locking the latch on the back door and patting down his pockets as he booked it to the entrance way. “But I’ve got a date with, like, <em>a lot </em>of liquor.”</p><p>“<em>Richie</em>,” Bev said, worried. God, she sounded so worried.</p><p>“I’m being safe about it, Red, don’t you fret.” That came out in a Voice. Maybe transatlantic, maybe mobster. Richie didn’t care. He was already out the door. “Now it’s time to let you go, Doll, I’ve got a ride to catch.”</p><p>“You’re going somewhere?” And now Bev was back to being stern and that just <em>sucked </em>cause stern Bev was hard to handle. “Where are you going?”</p><p>“I dunno,” Richie answered easily. There weren’t any bars within walking distance but he’d look one up while he called a Lyft. “The closest watering hole my horse can find.” And oh, that came out in a cowboy Voice Richie hadn’t used in <em>years</em>. He was chock full of fucking surprises.</p><p>Bev sighed heavily. “A bar, Richie? Is that a good idea?”</p><p>“Since when have I<em> ever</em> had a <em>good idea</em>?” he demanded, maybe a little angrily. Okay maybe <em>a lot </em>angrily. He was standing at the foot of his driveway and he had to very actively tell himself not to yell. They’d just moved into the neighborhood and he didn’t want to be <em>that guy</em>. The one that had meltdowns on his front lawn. Instead he whisper shouted into the phone, probably looking only marginally less like a lunatic. “I didn’t give <em>you </em>shit when you <em>took to the sea </em>for two fucking months so you could escape your problems and play tonsil hockey with Ben. So what’s with the third degree? We all have our fucking coping mechanisms, Bev. And since <em>mine </em>is trying to get balls deep with some suit, I’m gonna go have a fucking drink. Is that okay with you?”</p><p>And having a drink (or a few) was still a better option than snorting a few lines or popping a few pills. And somewhere, buried in Richie’s darkest places, that option still deeply appealed to him. But he hadn’t regularly done hard drugs in nearly ten years and he wasn’t about to succumb to <em>that </em>habit now the Losers were back in his life. Now that <em>Eddie </em>was back in his life. He couldn’t risk losing them, they were too important.</p><p>Bev, upsettingly, didn’t rise to the bait, didn’t try to fight him, didn’t defend herself from the things Richie already regretted saying – why couldn’t he <em>think </em>before he opened his stupid fucking mouth? She only asked, “You aren’t driving yourself, right? I just – Richie, I don’t like the idea of you going out while you’re this upset.”</p><p>“And <em>I </em>don’t really want to drink alone. I’ve been trying to not –” he grunted in frustration. “I’ve been trying to cut down on the sad-sack-drinking-alone thing and a bar isn’t <em>that much </em>better but at least a bartender will cut me off before I…” <em>make myself sick</em>? <em>Accidentally kill myself with alcohol poisoning</em>? “…whatever.”</p><p>“I’ll have a drink with you,” Bev returned immediately and Richie’s mouth fell open like a dead fish.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Let’s do a video chat. Just me and you.”</p><p>“Aren’t you too busy to be drinking at –” he pulled his phone away to check the time and calculated the time change, “- at four pm on a Thursday?”</p><p>“Nah,” she said easily, and she didn’t sound worried or stern anymore. Instead she kind of sounded like the Bev Richie had always liked best. Mischievous and secretive and scheming. “Come on, Richie. I’m alone in Ben’s fucking ridiculous open floorplan glass monstrosity of a house and he’s not due home ‘til late. I can’t even <em>imagine </em>what snooty ass booze he’s got but it’s probably absurd. I bet I could drink, like, a thousand bucks in tequila alone if I really put my mind to it.”</p><p>“…You’ve got an early flight tomorrow,” Richie said weakly.</p><p>“You think I’ve never gotten on a plane hungover?” Bev laughed. “Oh my god, the first year I went to Millan I got <em>trashed </em>on Sambuca, which, by the way, <em>is not </em>easy to do. I drank my fucking body weight, Richie. It was an eight hour flight home the next day and my vomit tasted like liquorish. I <em>still </em>gag anytime someone eats those black Red Vines within a two mile radius of me.”</p><p>Richie turned back and looked at the house. Hanging out with Bev and drinking away his problems sounded <em>way </em>better than doing it with strangers in a bar. It also probably minimized the chances of him blacking out and getting into any serious trouble. And he really <em>hoped </em>he wasn’t going to fucking sob or something once he was drunk but at least Bev wouldn’t care about that – fuck knows she’d seen him cry too many times already, at least once when he was fifteen and Mike’s barn cat had kittens that were just <em>too fucking small</em>.</p><p>Drinking and then weeping in public might get him papped and annoyingly Richie had passed the point in his life where he was unembarrassed by what the public thought of him (lamely because the Losers were included in that broad brush of ‘the public’ and he already had the title of Most Pathetic Loser - he didn’t need to reapply for it every year).</p><p>Plus, reconnecting with the Losers turned him into a greedy kid, hoarding information about the lives they’d lived that he missed. He was already storing Bev’s story about Italy in a secret chamber of his heart so he could turn it over later like a puzzle piece and the promise of <em>more </em>was undeniably tempting.</p><p>He cleared his throat roughly and asked, “You think Ben has any Sambuca lying around?”</p><p>Bev gagged loudly into the phone and Richie laughed, just a little, slowly making his way back up the front walkway.</p><p>“Okay, fuck you Richie,” she said, utterly without heat. Then, “Here, why don’t I give you the tour. This house is fucking insane.” A notification to switch their voice call to facetime came up and Richie dithered on the stoop.</p><p>“This isn’t a <em>pity </em>hangout, right?” Richie broached slowly, knowing it already was but hoping to god Bev would play along to let him feel just the smallest bit better about himself.</p><p>“I just spent four hours in a divorce hearing trying to wrestle my company away from Tom’s meat-fisted stranglehold.” Bev’s voice was unashamedly hard and bitter and Richie loved her all the more for it. “I’m not fucking around when I say you’re doing me a favor.”</p><p>With that news, Richie accepted the facetime invite and peered determinedly at the image of Bev, hair up in a sloppy bun, a ratty t-shirt that was probably Ben’s making her seem smaller than she actually was. She looked tired and perfect and the adoration he could see on his own face in the corner window was mirrored on hers.</p><p>“You want to talk about that?” he asked, pathetically underequipped emotionally. Like too many bad jokes walking around in a human suit. Like someone who’d drank, smoked, and snorted all their feelings away for the last twentyish years instead of learning how to talk about them.</p><p>Bev smirked. “Not until I’ve had <em>at least </em>two drinks.”</p><p>Richie huffed out a laugh. At least he wasn’t the only one. “My kinda girl. Okay then, let’s go play bartender with Ben’s expensive booze.”</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>When Eddie pulled his car into the garage at half after eight, he was deeply relieved to see Richie’s Mustang exactly where it was meant to be. He’d been half convinced he’d get home to find Richie had left and gotten himself into some sort of drunken fiasco, the tabloid articles writing themselves in his head.</p><p>
  <em>Richie Tozier spotted drunk and disorderly in public library!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Richie Tozier arrested on Hollywood Blvd for heckling costumed characters!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Richie Tozier drives car off cliff AGAIN!</em>
</p><p>That was potentially a little more overdramatic than the occasion called for and Eddie quietly chided himself for the thousand-millionth time that night. He’d had drinks with Richie plenty since he moved out to California and the most outrageous thing he ever done was talk Bill and Eddie into a shivering 2am dip into the pool before ordering entirely too much food from Taco Bell, spending half the night miserable with heartburn.</p><p>But <em>something </em>was up with Richie. And, after a night of brooding over it endlessly, Eddie decided that the confidence he held in his own intuition didn’t make him overbearing (he <em>wasn’t </em>his mother, he <em>wasn’t</em>); it made him Richie’s well-informed best friend.</p><p>Despite that, Eddie was still a mixed bag of emotions when he hurriedly let himself into the house and called out, “Richie?” only to be met with a thump somewhere further into the house followed by a prolonged, tense silence. He made a lap of the house, passing quickly through the empty living room (frowning at the Klimt painting over the mantle, it just didn’t feel right, he’d take it down tomorrow) and glancing into the bright kitchen, peering into Richie’s dark bedroom and then, just in case, his own, disappointed Richie wasn’t already passed out in there and sleeping off the booze and whatever the fuck was going on with him.</p><p>After just long enough that Eddie started worrying that thump had been Richie climbing out a window to drunkenly explore the neighborhood on foot, Bev’s voice, tinny and distant through a computer speaker, called out, “<em>He’s in here</em>!” from the kitchen, followed by a rush of deeper mumbling and Bev’s inebriated giggling.</p><p>Richie, as it turned out, was camped out on the floor of the kitchen behind the island counter, laptop down there with him, a surprisingly fun looking mixed drink on the ground next to his knee. It even had one of those paper umbrellas stabbed through a lime wedge leaning against the lip of the glass. Eddie would have been surprised about that attention to detail if Richie were anyone but Richie.</p><p>“What are you doing on the floor?” Eddie snapped, his elevated heartrate finally slowing down.</p><p>Richie shrugged. “I was showing off your paint job to Bev,” he answered, Vanna White-ing the cabinets behind him while Bev appropriately ‘oooh’ed and ‘aaah’ed on cue. Together, Richie and Eddie had painted them blue the week before (partially because Richie thought the white cabinets looked like they belonged in a hospital and partially because every other person Eddie had ever lived with would have been horrified by a kitchen with so much color in it). Eddie was constantly surprised by how much he liked it.</p><p>“Eddie! Eddie!” Bev called from the computer and Richie dutifully spun his computer around and tilted the screen until Eddie was looking down at Bev’s flushed, smiling face. “How’d your date go?”</p><p>Eddie sighed and scrubbed his face.</p><p>“Uh-oh, that bad?”</p><p>“It wasn’t <em>bad</em>,” he answered waspishly, propping a fist on his hip. His eyes darted again to the weird little tropical drink that was now in Richie’s hand, ice clinking against the glass as Richie sipped, attention on Bev through his computer screen leaving Eddie to study the uninformative crown of his dark head.</p><p>“<em>Buuuuuuutttttt</em>…” Bev asked leadingly.</p><p>“Ugh, come up here – fucking <em>both </em>of you – and what the fuck is that?” He gestured to Richie’s drink. “Make me one of those,” Eddie demanded and before Richie could answer, Eddie grabbed him by the upper arm and pulled him to his feet. Richie jolted at the contact but lumbered to his full height, dutifully turning to the little prep station he’d set up for himself next to the sink.</p><p>Eddie leaned over to pick up the computer, smiling at Bev as he got a closer look at her. “Hey Bev,” he mumbled again, stupidly pleased to see her even though he’d be seeing her <em>in person </em>tomorrow. She was spread across a boxy, minimalist couch that looked more form than function, dark glass behind her, a standing lamp at her elbow turning her frizzy red bun into a sunburst over her head. She had a tall glass in her hand, her head tilting loosely on her shoulders as she squiggled into a different position, pulling the camera closer to herself and settling in like they were swapping secrets at a slumber party.</p><p>“Give us the deets!” she cheered while Eddie situated himself and the laptop at the kitchen table so he and Richie could sit like normal adults and both fit in frame.</p><p>“There is literally nothing to tell you about,” Eddie said resignedly, watching Richie’s back as he worked away at the kitchen counter, a sliver of anxiety racing down Eddie’s spine. Richie was hunched in on himself, shoulders curled up by his ears. He didn’t <em>seem </em>that drunk, not nearly as drunk as his horribly mistyped messages had led Eddie to believe he’d be, but that had been a few hours ago so potentially Richie had sobered up a bit?</p><p>“Aaron’s a dud, huh?” Eddie dragged his eyes from Richie back down to Bev who was looking at him sympathetically from the laptop screen. Not <em>pityingly</em>, thank christ. Eddie would not be able to live with himself if he was getting <em>pitied </em>for his lackluster attempt at a first date with a man.</p><p>“He’s <em>fine</em>,” Eddie mumbled rolling his eyes. Belatedly he realized he was still in his suit jacket so he wrestled himself out of it, fingers stilling on the knot of his tie, his eyes flashing back to Richie’s turned back. Eddie didn’t know <em>what </em>made him decide to leave it (yes he did, of course he fucking did) but he resisted the urge to loosen the satin, rolling up his shirt sleeves instead. “Aaron’s nice enough. And okay to look at; the guy clearly works out.” Out of the corner of his eyes, Eddie saw Richie’s shoulders draw up higher around his ears. “It’s just – I mean <em>I’ve </em>got no right to call anyone boring but -”</p><p>“- You stabbed a space clown in the throat,” Richie pointed out, spinning around with a glass in hand with none of his usual performative aplomb, padding over carefully set the drink down in front of Eddie. When Richie pulled out the neighboring seat, he positioned it so his chair was significantly further away from Eddie’s than it had been originally.</p><p>Eddie frowned and dropped his eyes to the drink Richie had made him. It wasn’t the fancy little tropical number Richie sipped from, which, in hindsight was a good idea. Acidic juice this late at night gave Eddie acid reflux. Instead, it was a gin and tonic with a lime wedge neatly balanced on the edge of the glass. A sip told Eddie it was more gin than tonic, just how Eddie liked it.</p><p>Eddie went to nudge Richie with his elbow in thanks but the gap between them was too big and Eddie watched his own brow dip in the little corner box of the video chat. He stole a quick (almost guilty) glace at Bev before his eyes dropped back to their video feed in time to see Richie bow his head over the arms he folded on the table and avoid eye contact with everything but his drink. “Bet <em>Aaron</em> hasn’t done anything that cool,” he mumbled to his crossed arms.</p><p>Bev, seemingly trying to pick up the slack in enthusiasm, tipped her glass in the direction of her camera. “Yeah, you’re a demon-slayer, Eddie!”</p><p>“- that was a group effort –”</p><p>“You couldn’t be boring if you tried!”</p><p>Eddie hummed to brush away their comments, a little thrill of joy sitting warm in his stomach despite himself. “Aaron talked sales to me all night. And I talked risk because he kept asking me questions about that and it was like, I have a life outside work, bro. This isn’t a fucking job interview.”</p><p>Maybe that was unfairly harsh. Aaron was nice. He really was. He talked a lot which Eddie didn’t mind because he grew up with Richie who fucking <em>never </em>shut up plus Eddie has spent the night so distracted he only picked up one word out of three. Eddie had kept one hand on his pocket all night, hoping and dreading he’d get a message from Bev or Richie or the fucking <em>cops</em>, obsessively tracing the shape of Richie’s broken glasses through his slacks and stealing glances at his watch whenever he thought he could get away with it.</p><p>“You gonna see him again?” Bev asked and it was wild, so fucking wild, how much Eddie had used to hate being asked questions, being <em>interrogated</em>, but it never felt like that with the Losers. Bev was interested in his life. She was interested in <em>him</em>. Eddie was still adjusting to that.</p><p>“We eat in the same courtyard at work so I guess we have tentative plans to do lunch sometime.” Aaron had suggested it at the end of the night before Eddie rushed off to get home, the continued silence from Richie too disconcerting to ignore. Then Aaron had kissed him on the cheek, <em>almost </em>on the mouth, right on the corner of his lips. “I mean he kissed me goodbye so –”</p><p>Richie choked violently on a sip of his drink and Eddie pounded him hard on the back, an automatic response, even when Richie tried to brush him off while he hacked out, “I’m okay, fuck, wrong pipe.”</p><p>Bev wolf-whistled loudly (honestly Eddie was a little impressed, who the fuck could actually whistle like that?) and Eddie tried not to dwell on how Richie had gently pushed his arm away or how he kept inching away from Eddie whenever Eddie scooted his chair a little closer to him. They were slowly migrating down the side of the table. Eddie paused his pursuit to adjust the laptop <em>again </em>because Eddie was now centered in the frame while Richie was half cut off.</p><p>“He <em>kissed </em>you,” Bev grinned, and she was definitely more than tipsy but there was something strained and tight in her expression. Her eyes kept jerking back and forth between Eddie and Richie who Eddie was watching again in the little window at the bottom right. Richie was still coughing a bit but he was now resting his head in his hand, one giant palm covering his face from his chin to the bottom of his glasses, eyes lowered to the table.</p><p>Something was <em>definitely</em> wrong with Richie.</p><p>There had been no hug when Eddie walked in the door, no hair ruffle or shoulder grab or smile. He’d barely <em>looked </em>at Eddie, his head bowed, unusually quiet and calm even though he was clearly a little drunk and drunk-Richie had even less volume control and impulse moderation than sober-Richie.</p><p>And Bev was being fucking squirrely, glancing between the two of them like she knew something. Which she probably did. Richie and her were <em>close</em> – Eddie heard them whispering on the phone sometimes (technically he’d heard <em>Richie </em>whispering, he knew it was with Bev because later he’d get a cheerful update on how she was doing), sharing secrets, the same way they’d done when they were kids, smoking under the bleachers and hurriedly changing the subject when Eddie wandered into hearing distance.</p><p>Eddie hated it then and he hated it now. Richie was supposed to be <em>his </em>best friend.</p><p>“Okay, enough about me,” Eddie said, pounding half his drink in one huge gulp and coughing off the sting. If everyone else was going to be drunk and weird, he’d have to meet them on their level. “What the fuck is up with you two, huh?”</p><p>“What do you mean?” Bev sing-songed, her light tone doing nothing to disguise the tense line of her mouth.</p><p>“Why have you been drinking all day?” There were a few empty bottles of beer on the kitchen counter (Eddie counted three which wasn’t as bad as it could have been – Richie had a high tolerance) and the remains of some kind of take-out still scattered the table (thank god Richie had eaten <em>something</em>). But the place wasn’t the mess he’d been expecting, no worse than how the kitchen would look if Bill came over and they hung out for a few hours. Some part of Eddie had thought Richie might burn the house down with himself inside it but maybe whatever happened wasn’t the disaster Eddie feared it would be.</p><p>“I had a meeting with Tom’s lawyers today,” Bev said grimly and Eddie scowled, his hand automatically landing on Richie’s forearm when it was probably Bev he wanted to reach out and comfort. Thankfully Richie didn’t pull away (though he <em>did </em>jump, arm jerking under Eddie’s hand, and Eddie automatically tightened his grip).</p><p>“Jesus Bev, are you okay?”</p><p>“Yeah,” she sighed. “I’m fine-ish. But after listening to a bunch of assholes insinuate that all my success was built on the back of my abusive husband,” she paused to roll her eyes and take a long sip from her glass, “I needed a friendly ear.”</p><p>“And I have two of them,” Richie chimed in, muffled from behind his hand, winking exaggeratedly at the camera – the closest thing to acting like himself he’d done all night. “Being mostly unemployed has its benefits.”</p><p>“You aren’t <em>unemployed</em>, asshole,” Eddie snapped back immediately, his hand traveling up Richie’s arm to his shoulder, seemingly of its own free will. Richie wasn’t corded with muscles (neither was Eddie necessarily though he frequented the gym to keep himself in some sort of shape) but Richie was sturdy and warm and strong – the kind of strong that came from lugging around his six-foot-whatever body. He caught Richie looking at him from below his eyelashes, eyes magnified behind his glasses wet and extra vulnerable. Eddie swallowed, heavily.</p><p>God, he was so fucked.</p><p>Kissing Aaron (being <em>kissed </em>by Aaron) had done jack-shit to get Richie off his mind. If anything the compulsion to lean over and plant a smooch on the corner of Richie’s mouth was even worse now that Eddie had a sense memory for the slight stubble of a day’s worth of beard growth and the mundane detail of someone else’s glasses bumping against his cheekbone to feed reality into the fantasy.</p><p>“Let’s get back to the part of the story where you and Aaron kissed,” Bev insisted, practically reading Eddie’s mind. Richie’s eyes dropped and he leaned back, a casual looking move that dislodged Eddie’s hand from his shoulder.</p><p>“It was noth –” Eddie cut himself off when the sound of the front door slamming interrupted his thought.</p><p>“S-sorry!” Bill’s voice echoed from the direction of the front door. “Fuck,” he muttered more quietly, obviously to himself.</p><p>Richie frowned and shared an unspoken conversation with Eddie (‘<em>were you expecting him?</em>’ ‘<em>no, were you</em>?’), and a bit of the vice around Eddie’s chest loosened. Richie might be mad at him but at least he had finally given him some fucking eye-contact.</p><p>“We’re in the kitchen!” Richie called out in a Voice that hinted at Mrs. Doubtfire.</p><p>“Who’s that?” Bev asked, frowning?</p><p>“Bill,” Richie answered.</p><p>“Boo! You guys always hang out without us,” she whined into her glass.</p><p>“You’ll be here <em>tomorrow</em>, Bev,” Eddie reminded her. Then, “You’re all packed, right?”</p><p>“Yeeeeeeeaaaahhhh…” she dragged out in a way that obviously meant ‘<em>no</em>’. Richie snorted, both he and Eddie turning to glance at the kitchen doorway when the sound of clattering, rolling, and uneven footsteps became loud enough to raise questions.</p><p>“What’s he –” Eddie started, half standing up before Bill stepped into sight.</p><p>He was pulling a suitcase behind him, two boxes stacked precariously in his arms, a stuffed duffel bag slung over one shoulder smacking merrily into his laptop case as he came to a standstill centered in the arch of the double doorway to the living room.</p><p>“Audra and I are splitting up,” Bill said abruptly, looking just as shocked at the words coming out of his mouth as Eddie was to hear them.</p><p>Were it not for Bev’s hissed insistence of, “<em>Turn the camera, turn the camera</em>!” and Richie’s robotic completion of that request, Eddie wasn’t sure any of them would have spoken or moved for another thirty minutes at least.</p><p>“Uhhhhh <em>sorry</em>?” Eddie said at the same time that Richie said, “<em>Congratulations</em> I guess?” and Bill, thank fucking god, bent at the knees, tipped his head back, and laughed, admittedly a little crazily.</p><p>Richie was the first one on his feet, hurrying over to meet Bill at the threshold of the kitchen and wrestling the boxes from his hands, Eddie tight on Richie’s heels and already rushing in for a hug now that Bill had his arms free.</p><p>“Holy shit, dude, are you okay?” Eddie found himself asking, catching a mouthful of Bill’s hair and finding himself shaken off when Richie started unloading Bill’s duffel and laptop case from his shoulder.</p><p>“I duh-don’t know…” Bill answered looking faintly queasy. “Does the invitation to stay st-stuh-still stand?”</p><p>Richie answered, “<em>Yeah </em>man,” with so much warmth Eddie’s chest ached. “You’ve already got a key and a room. Stay for-fucking-ever.”</p><p>The relief on Bill’s face was palpable.</p><p>“<em>Bring that group hug over here</em>!” Bev’s tinny voice called through the speaker and Bill ducked around Richie to peer into the kitchen.</p><p>“B-Bev?” Bill asked, smiling bemusedly at Richie who had moved on from pulling his bag off his shoulder to unzipping and manhandling off his coat. See, <em>that </em>was a normal Richie greeting – invasive and weird, goofy in the way it was obvious he was trying to make Bill laugh. Why didn’t Eddie get one of those? “Were all you guh-guys drinking without me?”</p><p>“<em>It’s been an eventful day</em>,” Bev answered from the computer and the trio of men exchanged agreeing, faintly exhausted glances.</p><p>“Wanna get slizzard?” Richie asked with a shrug, hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders hunched.</p><p>“<em>Don’t </em>call it that,” Eddie bit out at the same time Bill heavily answered, “<em>Yes</em>,” and as the man who just broke up with his wife, Eddie didn’t feel like he had much room to argue the decision.</p><p>Still, once Richie had shoved Bill into the middle seat at the table (effectively guaranteeing it was going to be a Bill sandwich tonight which, okay, Bill probably needed that more but Eddie had spent half the day worrying about Richie who was still being fucking<em> weird </em>and Eddie had <em>always </em>hated when anyone sat between them so fucking sue him if he was a little miffed about it), Eddie wasn’t above physically cornering Richie in the open fridge if it meant he’d get some answers.</p><p>“What happened to only drinking when you’re happy?” Eddie whispered, crossing his arms and blocking Richie’s retreat. Richie grimaced a bit at the contents of the fridge and pulled out the half-emptied six pack.</p><p>“The guy just split up with his wife,” Richie whispered back and his eyes traveled right over Eddie when he stole a glance at Bill who was already deep in conversation with Bev. “Doesn’t this qualify as a special occasion?”</p><p>“You were drinking before Bill showed up. Why won’t you tell me what happened, Rich?”</p><p>Richie squeezed himself past Eddie and it wasn’t until the fridge door closed that Eddie spotted his little doodle stuck to the freezer, right next to Richie’s – two little Eddie cartoons scowling back at him, no doubt mirroring his current expression.</p><p>“Is this about last night?” Eddie demanded, hyperaware of the way Richie flinched. “Did you have another Deadlight dream after I left this morning?”</p><p>“<em>Nothing happened</em>, dude,” Richie insisted, pointedly avoiding meeting Eddie’s eyes as he circled back to the kitchen table, dropping all three of the beers in front of Bill who immediately cracked into one of the bottles and fucking <em>chugged</em>.</p><p>Eddie wasn’t thrilled about that – Richie clearly used drinking as a crutch (maybe quite a few of the Losers did, actually) and this might qualified as enabling (he’d have to talk to his therapist about it) – but Richie only watched bemusedly when Bill slammed his first empty bottle down onto the table and popped open a second, thankfully only sipping from it this time.</p><p>“Shit, Billiam,” Richie hummed impressed, “I think I’ve got some cans and a pen knife somewhere – you wanna shotgun ‘em?”</p><p>“I’m fi-<em>uugh</em>-ne,” Bill answered, the break in his words more a burp than a stutter and Richie dissolved into slightly strained and artificial laughter but judging from the way Bill huffed out a chuckle and Bev giggled, Eddie was he only one who noticed it was act. “Just cuh-c-catching up.”</p><p>Eddie, after a brief but furious internal debate, snatched up the bottle of tequila and the collection of sliced limes Richie had left on a cutting board and fished out three kitschy shot glasses Richie had obviously picked up while touring because they all bore the names of different cities.</p><p>Mixing alcohols was a terrible idea and encouraging whatever the fuck was going on with Richie was probably worse but he wasn’t anyone’s fucking <em>mother </em>and he’d had a rough fucking day too (and this was actively despicable of him but there was a chance that if Richie got drunk enough, he’d spill whatever was rattling around in that stupid huge head of his and Eddie <em>really </em>didn’t like when Richie kept shit from him so…).</p><p>Eddie slid into his seat at the kitchen table and brandished the bottle and the limes at the group, tilting it to be sure it was in view of the camera.</p><p>“Shots!” Bev called merrily in answer, somewhat uncoordinatedly jumping up from the couch, the camera spinning sickeningly as she carried them into another room with her. “Great idea, Eddie. Time to indoctrinate Bill into the Failed Marriages Club!”</p><p>“You really think there’s no chance of getting back together,” Eddie asked, startled. Bill had said ‘<em>split</em>’ earlier, not ‘<em>divorce</em>’, but Eddie supposed they weren’t exactly diametric opposite ideas. What was more confusing was that Bill’s marriage with Audra hadn’t seemed unhappy or unhealthy or any of the other more obvious words to describe Bev and Eddie’s respective situations. Audra was nice. She clearly loved Bill and Bill loved her in return. They respected each other, not just as spouses but as individuals. If anyone was going to make it work, it would have been them.</p><p>Eddie stole a glance at Richie who was studying Bill looking markedly unsurprised. The fucking know it all.</p><p>“I think it’s for the b-best,” Bill answered with a deep sigh, reaching for the bottle of tequila and pouring out three heavy-handed shots. “Audra’s not <em>mad.</em>” He squinted at the ceiling. “She’s not <em>that </em>mad,” he corrected. “And it’s not like I huh-hate her or she huh-hates me. Sometimes things… don’t work out.”</p><p>Then Bill immediately tossed back one of the shots and refilled the glass.</p><p>“Brave words for someone who’s <em>clearly </em>fucked up over it,” Richie drolled and Eddie automatically kicked his leg out under the table aiming for Richie’s shin but it was Bill who flinched and turned to Eddie with a betrayed little, “<em>ow…</em>?”</p><p>“Sorry Bill. Not <em>every </em>marriage that ends in divorce was toxic, <em>Richie</em>,” Eddie snapped, daring Richie to meet his glare but Richie was much more focused in pulling over his own shot and downing it with a jerk of his head.</p><p>“I duh-don’t know,” Bill mumbled, leaning back and sinking down in his seat, back to nursing his second beer. “We weren’t – it wasn’t anything like what you g-guys went through,” he shot Bev and Eddie an apologetic cringe, “but it might not have been healthy either.”</p><p>“Yeah, but what the fuck is <em>healthy</em>?” Richie asked, surprisingly astute.</p><p>“Probably not me and Audra.” Bill picked distractedly at the label on his beer. “In some ways, I think she was a sort of placeholder,” the glance Bill cut to the laptop screen, to Bev in her red-haired and green-eyed glory, was sheepish and more than a little guilty. “She ruh-reminded me of something I’d lost.”</p><p>“Then I hate to break this to ya champ but you’ve got good company,” Bev quipped back, tilting a shot glass of her own (much nicer looking than the stupid touristy bullshit they were drinking from) at the camera and downing it, an impressive collection of bottles lining the shelves behind her. Damn, Ben’s house was fucking <em>fancy </em>(but also kind of<em> cold</em>).</p><p>“Can we talk about suh-something else?” Bill practically begged, running a hand through his already wild hair. “I’ve been going in circles over this all duh-d-d-day. What were you talking about before I busted down the door?”</p><p>“Eddie kissed his date,” Richie answered immediately and Bill choked on his sip of beer as Bev started cackling.</p><p>“Okay, what the fuck?” Eddie snapped. “Why is everyone so fucking surprised?”</p><p>“Oh, honey, we aren’t <em>surprised</em>…” Bev simpered reassuringly but there was something about the sparkle in her eyes that made him think she was making fun of him. Not necessarily in a <em>mean </em>way – more like she was teasing him. The same way all the Losers teased each other. Eddie had never liked that as a kid (unless it was Richie who was fucking <em>begging </em>to be teased back) but it had made him feel like part of the group – like these were people who knew he could take a bit of harassment and weren’t going to coddle him just because he was small and sick and weak.</p><p>It was alarming to find that gut reaction of pleasure still bloomed warm in his stomach at the goading.</p><p>“I’m a grown-ass man, I can kiss people if I fucking want to. I can kiss <em>a dude </em>if I fucking want to.”</p><p>Bev cheered while Bill said, “Which apparently, you <em>do</em>?” voice lilting up like it was a question, clearly still shocked at the news.</p><p>“You didn’t sound so fucking <em>skeptical </em>when Richie came out,” Eddie bit back, defensive.</p><p>“R-Richie would kiss a f-fucking <em>possum </em>if it would let him.”</p><p>“Yeah, well, I’m glad you know the importance of consent,” Eddie intoned, perversely pleased when Richie snorted and threw his head back with laughter. His first <em>real </em>laugh of the night. Jesus christ what was going on with him?</p><p>“So… how was it?” Bill asked, and suddenly Eddie felt the weight of three sets of eyes on him.</p><p>To stall for time, he grabbed his own shot of tequila and threw it back, gagging at the taste before Richie reminded him, “Bite a lime, dude,” and the sting of citrus helped eased the burn.</p><p>“It was <em>fine</em>,” Eddie answered, the lime wedge still between his teeth, and three fucking eyebrows lifted almost in unison. Eddie tried to spit the bitten lime at Richie but it felt short and landed on Bill’s chest who made a half-hearted noise of offense.</p><p>“Fine but not <em>good</em>?” Bev’s face was doing <em>something </em>but Eddie had no idea what it meant.</p><p>“It was a fucking <em>peck</em>,” Eddie explained, taking a sip of his gin and tonic and nearly gagging again at the mix of flavors in his mouth. “A goodbye kiss. About as fucking intimate as the shit I’d give my wife which, <em>yes</em>, is a whole other thing but I don’t want to get into that, either.”</p><p>“Fair enough,” hummed Bill.</p><p>“So my first kiss with a guy was… <em>underwhelming</em>,” Eddie gruffly summarized, sinking lower into his seat, more than a little disappointed. Maybe there was just too much build up to the moment. He’d been watching too much porn or he’d been overestimating his interest in kissing or he’d spent too much time staring at Richie’s stupid fucking Trashmouth. One experience didn’t establish a pattern but somehow this felt too much like <em>failure</em> and Eddie really fucking hated letting himself down.</p><p>“<em>That</em> was your first kiss with a guy?” Bill frowned. “What about the guy in college? The one who gave you a blow job?”</p><p>“The guy who <em>what</em>?!” Richie shrieked at the same time Bev made a noise that was comparable to Donald Sutherland’s scream from <em>Invasion of the Body Snatchers</em>.</p><p>If it were anyone but the Losers, Eddie would be horrified to have been thrown under the fucking bus (he shot Bill a ‘<em>thanks a lot for that</em>,’ look and Bill appropriately flushed guiltily and downed the rest of his second beer, cracking open his third) but the Losers didn’t keep a lot of secrets from each other (except Richie who was being a dick).</p><p>“I didn’t <em>kiss </em>that guy,” Eddie answered flatly. “He just kinda –” he gestured widely at his lower body because he was starting to feel the shot and his mostly empty gin and tonic, “- went down on me.”</p><p>Bill laughed uproariously.</p><p>“Oh my fucking god,” Bev intoned gleefully while Richie pounded down the last of his drink and stood abruptly, grabbing Eddie’s glass on his way back into the kitchen. “Was it good?”</p><p>“It was a blow job so <em>yeah</em>?”</p><p>“Was he better than the girls who went down on you?”</p><p>“He was my first so my judgement is a little skewed.”</p><p>Something thunked loudly against the counter behind Eddie and he spun. Richie was mashing his face into the cabinet above his mix station but before Eddie could start to worry about him, Richie half-shouted, “What the fuck?!” indignantly.</p><p>“<em>What</em>, asshole?”</p><p>“You’re telling me you <em>accidentally </em>got a blow job from a dude while you were still, what? In your <em>teens</em>?”</p><p>“Yeah, so?”</p><p>“The universe hates me.”</p><p>“Why, cause Eddie’s better at reeling in the boys?” Bill chuckled and Bev warningly mumbled, “<em>Bill</em>,” but Eddie was pretty sure he was the only one who caught that.</p><p>“Who is shocked by that news? Anyone?” Richie asked rhetorically while he spun, flourishing the open bottle of gin a little <em>too </em>wildly. And there was something in his tone, something darker and more hurt than the usual edge that colored his voice when he got self-deprecating, and Eddie <em>really </em>didn’t like it. “No one? Yeah, me neither. I bet Eddie was a fucking <em>twink</em> in college.”</p><p>“<em>Excuse me</em>,” Eddie cried, indignant. “You bet I was a <em>what</em>?”</p><p>“<em>Oh my god you don’t even know</em>,” Richie said, leaning back to stare dramatically at the ceiling while Bev much more helpfully supplied, “He means cute. Cute and… compact.” She smirked.</p><p>“Okay, <em>fuck </em>both of you, I’m perfectly normal sized. <em>Bill </em>is smaller than me. If anyone is a <em>twink, </em>it’s Bill.”</p><p>“<em>Hey</em>!” Bill argued, but he was still laughing.</p><p>“And what’s the big fucking deal if I got off with a guy before I got off with a girl?”</p><p>“It’s not a big deal at all, hun,” Bev answered reassuring but Richie approached like a thundercloud, setting Eddie’s refilled glass back in front of him, not terribly gently. “But…” Bev continued, “…it didn’t occur to you until now you might be bi?”</p><p>Bill poured out another round of shots, glancing up at Eddie with rapt attention.</p><p>“I didn’t think about it, I guess,” Eddie mumbled, feeling, once again, very behind all his friends. “It wasn’t until Richie pointed it out –”</p><p>“Hold on!” Bill interrupted, bizarrely triumphant. “<em>Ruh-R-Richie </em>told you you’re bi?”</p><p>“No, he’s the one who pointed out I probably had a crush on you when I was a kid.”</p><p>“Eddie!” Bev gasped, elation mixed with… something coloring her voice. “<em>You</em> had a crush on <em>Bill</em>?!”</p><p>“When I was <em>seven</em>.”</p><p>“Christ,” she laughed. “Did <em>everyone </em>like Bill?”</p><p>“Not me,” Richie shrugged and Eddie internally rejoiced. He fucking called it. Bill shot Richie a disbelieving look and Richie’s laughter was sharp around the edges. “Sorry to burst your bubble, Billy-boy, but the resident gay kid was <em>not interested</em> in what Big Bill was packing.”</p><p>“Oh really?” Bill smiled mock-coyly, fluttering his eyelashes and Richie’s laughter lost some of its bite.</p><p>“Find someone else for your harem,” Richie returned and Bill dissolved into cackles.</p><p>“You’ll c-come around,” Bill answered with a wink.</p><p>“And <em>I </em>figured out I’m bi, thanks very much Bill,” Eddie interceded, kind of annoyed by the fake-flirty looks Bill kept shooting Richie and the genuine grin slowly alighting over Richie’s features. “Once it was pointed out as a viable option, a lot of things suddenly made a lot of sense.”</p><p>“I still think Richie’s corrupting you,” Bill stated firmly, crossing his arms like he’d won some sort of argument.</p><p>“<em>Hey</em>!” Richie crowed, offended. Or maybe mock-offended. He was too good at disguising his real hurts with over-the-top acts.</p><p>Luckily Bev came to his rescue before Eddie had a chance to explode. “Being queer isn’t <em>contagious</em>, Bill, jesus.”</p><p>“Kinda feels like it is,” he mumbled before downing another shot. Richie’s eyes momentarily bulged and his gaze jerked to Eddie’s to share a meaningful glance before they quickly darted away.</p><p>“<em>Does </em>it now?” simpered Bev intrigued and Richie hid a slightly manic smile behind his glass.</p><p>Bill, seemingly realizing too late he’d said something he hadn’t meant to out loud, coughed to clear his throat and turned a boyish grin to Richie. “So then, wuh-what about <em>your </em>first blow job?” Bill asked (like that wasn’t a fucking <em>insane </em>thing to ask) and Eddie swiveled his attention to Richie so fast his vision blurred.</p><p>Richie groaned. “No no no, don’t turn this shit around on me. Why am <em>I </em>the one getting interrogated when we have First Date Kaspbrak over here and Recently Separated Denborough to regale us with stories?”</p><p>“I bet it was a disaster,” Bev stage-whispered, her eyes alight with mischief. “I’m picturing some nasty college dorm and a kid who liked to wear cardigans –”</p><p>“I didn’t go to college, Ringwald,” Richie pointed out and Eddie hated how there was a moment of quiet shock visibly shared between Bill and Bev. Richie (despite how often Eddie called him stupid both aloud and in his head) had always been one of the smartest Losers. But he was shit at applying himself at school and staying focused in class was practically impossible when he was vibrating out of his chair after two minutes of forced stillness and once he sank into what Eddie now realized was depression, he hardly bothered going to class at all.</p><p>But all that didn’t become a tangible issue until Stan left so Bill and Bev were picturing the kid who miraculously got mostly A’s and B’s in his classes despite never studying and scrambling to do his homework last minute.</p><p>Richie, seemingly picking up on the vibe and smirking (though how sincere that smile was Eddie could only guess), continued, “And why are you picturing me with <em>Stan</em>? You really think cardigan-wearers are my type?”</p><p>“<em>Aren’t they</em>?” Eddie grumbled quietly to himself but, judging from the raised eyebrow look Bev shot in his direction, she’d heard him.</p><p>“Okay, so Richie didn’t experiment in college like the rest of us,” Bev hummed and Bill demanded, “<em>Wait w-what</em>?!” so loudly and abruptly Eddie flinched, some of his drink toppling over the lip of his glass and sloshing down his hand.</p><p>“That’s what college is <em>for</em> Bill,” Bev laughed. Then she tilted her head and shrugged. “That’s what <em>life </em>is for.”</p><p>“Cheers to that,” Eddie said, tilting his glass towards the laptop and taking a long, meaningful sip, aware, suddenly, that he was definitely a little bit drunk.</p><p>“You… b-but <em>we</em> –” Bill stammered, flummoxed and flushed with booze. He pounded another shot (and Eddie started wondering whether he should cut Bill off sometime soon but decided that wasn’t his job and instead poured himself another round and clinked it against Bill’s empty glass).</p><p>“Big Bill wanted to think he was the best you ever had,” Richie mock-whispered in an aside to Bev on the screen.</p><p>“Come on, Rich, they were <em>fifteen</em>,” Eddie reminded him. “What’s the most they could have done?”</p><p>Bill insisted, “<em>Do not tell them</em>!” at the same time that Bev immediately answered, “He fingered me a couple times.”</p><p>Bill buried his face in his hands and Richie full on evil-cackled at his distress. “So Red, were Billy’s teenage fingers good for anything besides flipping the bird and perfectly stacking ham and cheese Lunchables?”</p><p>Bev grimaced, a real life version of the 😬 emoji, and even Eddie found himself leaning into Bill’s shoulder and laughing.</p><p>“To be fair, fifteen year old boys aren’t the highest standard when it comes to fingering.”</p><p>“C-can someone puh-p-please kill me?” Bill moaned from behind his hands.</p><p>“Aw, but you weren’t a bad kisser,” Bev simpered reassuringly. “I’m sure you just needed practice.”</p><p>Richie, particularly, found her attempts to comfort Bill so hilarious he would have fallen off his chair if Eddie hadn’t stretched an arm over Bill’s shoulder to grab Richie’s shirtsleeve and tug him back into place.</p><p>“Have you ruh-really been with a woman, Bev?” Bill asked with a smile once Richie and Eddie finally calmed down. Bill was never too sour about being the butt of the joke.</p><p>“One,” Bev shrugged. “My friend Kay. We met in college. She was the best friend I ever made outside of the Losers. But it was the 90’s and we both wanted careers and that was an uphill struggle already so things were only ever platonic outside the bedroom.” She sighed, a sad kind of sound. “Then I met Tom and marrying him made sense at the time. Obviously that was a <em>mistake</em> but, well, you know the story.”</p><p>There was a weighty pause before Bev smirked a little, privately, to herself, and then in a drunken whisper she said, “Don’t tell my lawyers cause it would become a whole <em>thing </em>but Kay was… there for me. During my marriage with Tom. If things got bad, I’d go over to her place and she’d… <em>we’d</em>… yeah.” Bev trailed off wistfully. “And Tom was so up his own ass he never even <em>imagined</em> – which was always the best kind of ‘fuck you’ so…”</p><p>And hearing one of his best friends had committed adultery shouldn’t have been some kind of <em>relief </em>to Eddie but it was. He’d spent so much time agonizing over Bev’s marriage. She had lived <em>in the same fucking city</em> as him for most of their lives. They might have crossed each other walking down the street a million times. He’d been so near and proximity made him responsible in a way Richie and Bill and Mike and Ben, so far away, were free from blame.</p><p>If Eddie had only known, if that fucking clown hadn’t wiped their memories, he would have tried to beat the living shit out of Tom Rogan and maybe been fucking killed for it but <em>god </em>wouldn’t that be worth it. Or maybe all he’d have to do was take Bev’s hand and remind her ‘<em>you were once brave enough to defeat this and you can do it again</em>,’ because Bev didn’t need him doing her dirty work for her. And maybe sparking that part of her would shake loose the muscle memory bravery in his own brain and they would have twenty years of their lives back.</p><p>But thinking like that was useless and Eddie was working on addressing and then releasing those bitter ‘<em>what if</em>’ thoughts in therapy. So he clung to the glimmer of gratefulness that Bev wasn’t alone while she struggled through her relationship with Tom. Somewhere there was a woman who welcomed Bev into a caring embrace when the Losers weren’t there to do it themselves and he was so thankful for that his heart hurt.</p><p>“So when do we get to meet this Kay?” Richie asked, breaking Eddie out of his thoughts. In the little window at the corner of the video chat, Eddie watched Richie swipe a knuckle under one of his eyes.</p><p>Bev seemed surprised by the question. “Oh, uh, whenever,” she stuttered. “You’d want to?”</p><p>“Absolutely,” Bill answered firmly while Eddie nodded, his head too loose on his shoulders.</p><p>Bev’s green eyes swam a little before she smiled, wide and happy in a way that made her look like that fifteen year old firecracker.</p><p>“Okay,” she mumbled, still grinning. “I’ll – yeah. We can do that sometime. I think you’d really like her. And she’s gonna <em>hate </em>Richie so that’ll be hilarious.”</p><p>Richie gasped in fake-outrage.</p><p>“Anyways,” she said, voice a little thick as she dashed a finger under her own eyelashes. “I showed you mine now you show me yours, Tozier.”</p><p>“What the fuck!” Richie sputtered. “I didn’t sign up to play Truth or Dare!”</p><p>“Like you ever picked Truth anyways,” Eddie goaded, feeling exquisitely validated when Richie stole the shot glass Bill had been tipping up to his mouth and threw it back, slamming it back onto the table with a flourish, ignoring Bill’s little, “<em>Hey!</em>”</p><p>“Fine. What do you want to know?”</p><p>Bev cheered, clearly moving from drunk into wasted. What time was her morning flight again? Was she going to be okay? Had she drank any water? “Who was your first kiss?”</p><p>“Mary Shepherd at a Halloween party when I was eighteen.”</p><p>“<em>What</em>?!” Eddie gasped. “I was <em>at </em>that party! Why’d I never hear about it?”</p><p>The memory was one he’d recovered nearly a month ago: Eddie hadn’t even wanted to go to that party but he let himself be talked into it. Richie dressed like Ace Ventura, Eddie (after Eddie had vetoed the cat face and half smothered Richie with a pillow) smudged up with charcoal, a red bandana around his forehead so he could parade around as the scrawniest Rambo in human existence.</p><p>“Uhhh,” Richie intoned sarcastically, “cause she cornered me in the bathroom, laid one on me, and I barely got out the door before I started puking?”</p><p><em>That </em>Eddie remembered too. Richie, head buried in the bushes of the neighbor’s house, whimpering Eddie’s name between retches. He’d thought it was because Richie had drank too much (even though, in retrospect, he’d been keeping an eye on how much Richie was putting down and it had only been a few mystery cups of punch) and so he carefully hovered out of the splash zone, occasionally rubbing his hand over Richie’s shoulders until the heaving stopped.</p><p>Richie had cried the whole walk back to Eddie’s house (if he had alcohol poisoning, no way was Eddie letting him sleep alone just to choke on his fucking vomit) but that also wasn’t unusual for Richie, especially if he was drunk and<em> especially</em> if he was sick. Now, Eddie hated himself for never asking for more details, for assuming nothing could have happened in the three minutes Richie had been out of his sight while he disappeared to take a leak and came flying back out, bee-lining for the door.</p><p>“G-ggross,” said Bill, his stutter less a stammer than a slur. Eddie surreptitiously slid the bottle of tequila out of Bill’s reach.</p><p>“Disaster! Called it,” cheered Bev and Richie chuckled lightly but Eddie felt like his throat was closing up. “Okay, first kiss with a <em>guy</em>,” she demanded and Richie took a long sip from his drink.</p><p>“Some dude when I was, like,” Richie’s face screwed up, “twenty-seven-ish? I don’t know, I was drunk and it was in a fucking bathroom so it wasn’t exactly the height of romance.”</p><p>Bill laughed drunkenly and Richie smiled again, a screwed on sort of grin that made Eddie ache. Something of his feelings were reflected in Bev’s slightly bleary-eyed expression.</p><p>“First blow job?” Bill asked, making grabby hands for the tequila but Richie reached over him, taking a long sip straight from the bottle.</p><p>“Given or received?” He winked at Bill and Eddie briefly debated if he could stop whatever was happening by flipping the table but immediately chided himself because he <em>liked </em>this table and didn’t want to damage Richie’s computer and also he very desperately wanted to know the answer to that question. He wound up frozen with indecision.</p><p>“B-both,” Bill slurred, trying to pour another shot and finding the bottle empty. “<em>Hey</em>!” he whined again more emphatically at Richie who only grinned back at him.</p><p>“I got my first beej –”</p><p>“Don’t call it that,” Eddie interjected.</p><p>“- from my sister’s neighbor in Chicago when I crashed at her place the winter after graduation. I –” he paused, face screwing up in thought. “Shit, you know she might have been a cougar or something cause she was, like, thirty-five.”</p><p>“For a guh-gay guy, you’ve been with a lot of women,” Bill said and Eddie punched him hard in the bicep. “<em>Ow</em>, Eddie, w-what the fuck?”</p><p>“I was a kid and no one had ever touched my dick except me and the mohel who circumcised me,” Richie shrugged. “And considering <em>that</em> ended with some of my parts sold separately, I wasn’t worldly enough to be discerning.”</p><p>“Did you throw up after that, too?” Bev asked with the kind of gentleness that hurt Eddie to hear, but Richie chuckled.</p><p>“Yeah. But I managed to hold it in until later,” he answered with a coy smile.</p><p>And Eddie stupidly, insanely, vividly wondered <em>what if</em>. What if <em>he’d </em>touched Richie’s dick? What if one of those nights he’d spent with Richie curled up against his front, crammed together in his tiny twin bed, Eddie had slid his hand over Richie’s hip and cupped the hot bulge of him through his boxers? Would Richie let him? Would he have <em>liked</em> it? Would <em>Eddie </em>have liked it too?</p><p>“Okay, so first oral sex received… wasn’t great… What about given?” Bev asked, leaning seriously towards the camera so her face took up most of the frame.</p><p>“I was twenty-four. He was my instructor at UCB and he looked almost <em>exactly </em>like Anthony Perkins and for some reason that really fucking did it for me,” Richie answered lightly while Eddie wracked his brain. Who the fuck was Anthony Perkins?</p><p>“Were you dating?” Eddie’s mouth asked without waiting for permission from his brain.</p><p>“Ha! <em>No</em>,” Richie said like it should have been obvious. “After class we’d drive a few miles from the theater and he’d let me get him off in the backseat.” Richie rolled his head around thoughtfully on his shoulders while Eddie contemplated the horror implied by Richie’s oh-so-casual ‘<em>he’d let me get him off.</em>’ That didn’t sound mutual - that sounded like Richie was being <em>used</em>.</p><p>Richie, unaware of Eddie’s inner turmoil, leaned towards Bill and dropped his nasally rasp into a seductive Voice, “He taught me how to put my Trashmouth to go-<em>ooough</em>-od use,” he burped directly into Bill’s ear who smacked him away while he cracked up.</p><p>“But did you <em>like </em>him?” Eddie asked, his blood pressure skyrocketing.</p><p>“Yeah?” Richie shrugged, draining the last dregs from his glass which, from the looks of it, was mostly melted ice. “If things were different maybe… But, you know, <em>no homo</em>. Had appearances to maintain and shit. When people started talking we stopped doing anything that might give us away including making eye contact.”</p><p>“What about you, Eddie?” Bev intervened hurriedly and Eddie wasn’t sure he was glad to move away from Richie’s history or if he was furious she’d changed the subject when Eddie had so much more he wanted to know.</p><p>“What about me?” he answered cagily, glancing around him at Bill and Richie and at Bev through the screen, realizing they were all decently drunk. Shit, they should probably call it a night soon – they were <em>fourty</em>, they couldn’t be pulling shit like this on a Thursday even if he and Bev were the only ones who functioned on any kind of regular schedule.</p><p>“Who’d you date before Myra?” Bev asked while Richie slouched low to lean heavily on Bill’s shoulder, staring blankly at the computer screen. Bill’s eyes, meanwhile, were so squinted they were practically closed.</p><p>“No one?” Eddie admitted. “Not anyone seriously, at least. I went on a few dates but –” but his mother had a copy of his school schedule and, once he started working, she lived with a timekeeper’s obsession, calculating the shifts in traffic and what it meant for his commute. If he ever strayed out of doors past his expected time home she flipped the fuck out and sleepwalking Eddie found it so much easier to fall into line than fight her over every fucking second of his time.</p><p>“There was one girl,” he remembered, the memory foggy with age where it had already been warped with stress. Rochelle. Taller than him and a chain smoker and so many things that made him <em>furious </em>but he kind of actually obsessed over. He met her in the creative writing class he had to take senior year of college to fulfill a requirement. He dropped the extra statistics class he was taking just so he’d have a couple free hours every week where his mom would think he was safely in school while he actually hung out with her around campus or in her apartment.</p><p>“She was a lot of my firsts,” he admitted. The first time he’d thought about calling someone his girlfriend, the first time he’d imagined himself with someone for longer than an awkward first date, the first time he had sex. It was uncoordinated and fumbling and the whole time he swung between deeply mortified and so insanely horny he was genuinely worried he’d cum himself blind but there had been a lot of laughter too. The good kind. The kind that meant they were enjoying themselves and a little giddy with the rush of endorphins. Sex had never been like that with Myra.</p><p>“But did you <em>like</em> her?” Richie asked, in a half-assed, slightly slurred imitation of his Eddie Voice.</p><p>“Yeah,” Eddie answered easily. “She was funny and kinda goofy but easy to get along with.”</p><p>“So what happened?” Bev’s eyes were drifting slightly closed.</p><p>“My mom found out.” Eddie wasn’t sure how exactly. He made a point to never call Rochelle from his aunt’s house because his mom had a tendency to pick up the phone and listen in. Usually he’d run out to ‘pick something up’ from the corner store and call her from the payphone on the way. But his mother must have found her phone number where he’d tucked it in his planner – he’d stupidly (sentimentally) kept the little piece of paper she’d doodled her number on below a string of doodle hearts even though he’d memorized it the moment she handed it over. “I don’t even know what mom said to her but it must have been bad cause she broke up with me.”</p><p>And that had hurt, the unexpected closure to the only part of his week Eddie looked forward to. Rochelle was the closest thing to a friend he’d had since Derry. She laughed when he cursed and wasn’t afraid to piss him off by blowing smoke pointedly in his face and he felt almost <em>normal </em>when he was with her. The closest to normal Eddie ever got in a world where he didn’t have the Losers.</p><p>But seeing the shadow on her face when he walked into class one day was the death knoll he’d been waiting for since the first time she smiled at him. Hearing her stilted ‘<em>it’s not you, it’s me</em>,’ break up, the quiet, horrified admission that his mother had spoken to her and Eddie’s realization that Sonia had reached out and stolen some of Rochelle’s joy even though she had <em>no fucking right</em> – that hurt a lot more.</p><p>“Didn’t bother with anyone after that until mom was dead and that turned out to be Myra…”</p><p>“Fuck,” Bev breathed, the word a little garbled in her mouth. She was lying face down on the leather sofa she’d been on earlier. “Bill, tell me you have some love stories that aren’t so fucking <em>depressing</em>.”</p><p>“Well, I’m getting a divorce so…”</p><p>Richie broke out into horribly inappropriate laughter.</p><p>“<em>Goddamnit</em>!” Bev grumbled. “Before Audra?”</p><p>“I d-dated a bunch in college and after,” he shrugged (and Richie groaned, “<em>BRAG</em>,” loudly and remorselessly which made Eddie laugh despite himself). “They were n-nice women, I’m still friends with a few of them,” he added, face screwed up thoughtfully, clearly very drunk. “Audra was struggling when we met – guh-g-getting out of a bad relationship and t-trying to make a career out of acting which is fucking hard. I was s-stable, you know? Solid ground to stand on.”</p><p>“<em>Fucking metaphor author bullshit</em>,” Richie grumbled.</p><p>“I luh-l-liked being n-needed,” Bill admitted, quietly. “I liked huh-helping her. Introducing her to casting directors and guh-giving her a space away from her ex.”</p><p>“Someone has a hero complex,” Richie sing-songed sleepily and Bill chuckled ruefully.</p><p>“Maybe,” Bill sighed. Eddie would have liked to exchange a look with Bev but her eyes were closed. “She hasn’t nuh-needed me in a while and that’s guh-g-good. I’m happy for her – I’m <em>p-proud </em>of her. But our dynamic was one-sided.” He made a little noise, face contorting into a cringe. “That’s not on her, it’s <em>me</em>. I think I d-don’t know how to tuh-t-t-” he paused and took a deep breath, “-<em>trust </em>her.”</p><p> Eddie watched his own expression twist in confusion in the bottom corner of the video chat. Bev was mostly asleep, her face pressed to a couch cushion, the camera angle a little off center so they had a better view of her unwinding bun laying on black leather than they did of her mouth and chin.</p><p>Eddie, faintly concerned (like he always was) pulled out his phone and sent a quick message to Ben asking if he’d be back home soon.</p><p>“You don’t trust her?” Richie repeated vaguely. His eyes were mostly closed, his head resting on Bill’s shoulder, his glasses wildly askew. If Eddie were the one sitting next to him, he’d have put his arm around Richie’s shoulder and pulled his glasses off his face so the plastic wouldn’t dig into his temple but Bill was clearly preoccupied with grimacing.</p><p>“It’s n-not her,” Bill insisted. “It’s muh-m-me. I don’t know how to ask f-for her help. I can’t even talk about Derry with her and th-thuh-th-” Bill clenched his jaw.</p><p>“That’s big stuff,” Richie finished for him, the way he often did. Eddie always wondered why Bill didn’t hate that more, when Richie jumped ahead and put words in his mouth, but Bill only nodded, defeated.</p><p>Eddie’s phone pinged with a message from Ben. He was almost home. And apparently he ‘<em>thought it was sweet</em>’ Eddie was looking out for Bev. Which was good – at least Ben didn’t think his concern was overbearing.</p><p>“I was s-someone different before,” Bill mumbled, rubbing at his eyes. “Sh-she’d never seen me cry or raise my voice or f-fucking have a meltdown in Ralph’s because the Morton Salt girl r-reminded me of G-Georgie. Even the s-st-stutter freaks her out, I can fucking tell.” Eddie gently laid his hand down on Bill’s shoulder, the one not occupied by Richie’s stupidly large head.</p><p>“Have you tried couple’s therapy?”</p><p>Bill hummed an affirmative noise and then he sighed. “I think we’ll be better as f-friends.”</p><p>“That’s really mature, Bill,” Bev mumbled, shocking Eddie. He had been sure she was out cold. Her eyes were still closed. “Sometimes I feel like the Bev who forgot everything was really trying to fuck me over. Now I’m stuck trying to untangle this huge mess…”</p><p>The three men nodded in agreement with various levels of energy. Eddie had never heard a truer fucking statement.</p><p>“Who knew the most fucked up thing about fighting an alien clown <em>twice</em> would be the years in between?” Richie asked.</p><p>A noise from Bev’s end finally inspired her to fully blink awake, a momentary jerk of panic on her face before it smoothed out and Ben’s soft voice filtered through the call. “Looks like someone found the good vodka,” he said, so obviously warm and fond Eddie could have pulled the words around himself like a blanket and taken a nap. Even extremely drunk and almost asleep, Bev tinged pink with delight.</p><p>The camera moved in a blur and then settled on Ben’s face from below. “Oh, hey guys!”</p><p>“Hey Benji,” Richie sleepily cheered while Bill, lilting into Eddie’s space, slurred, “Fuck, I miss you guys.” Eddie let himself be leaned on heavily and nodded heartily to show he agreed with Bill’s sentiment.</p><p>“What’s the occasion?” Ben asked, seating himself on the couch and looking unbearably tender when Bev promptly cuddled up against his side, absently dropping a smiling kiss to his clothed bicep.</p><p>“’M getting a divorce,” Bill answered immediately, tipping his empty bottle towards Richie’s laptop in a little ‘<em>cheers</em>’.</p><p>“Oh Bill, I’m so sorry,” Ben gushed looking positively heartbroken. “I know how hard you were trying to make it work.”</p><p>Staring at the Losers’ resident wonder-couple probably wasn’t doing Bill any favors at the moment, cuddled up as they were and looking so <em>at home </em>with each other on Ben’s uncomfortable, uber-modern couch. Eddie sometimes had a hard time looking at Bev and Ben himself, unable to stop thinking ‘<em>oh, that’s what love is supposed to be like</em>,’ and then drowning under a lifetime of regrets.</p><p>“Ehhh, I’ll be okay,” Bill blustered. “It’s s-sad but it’s also good.” He stared blankly into the air for a moment before he nodded firmly to himself. “Sad but good!” he repeated with more force. Richie flinched away from the loudness of his voice.</p><p>“Okay, I think it’s time to put everyone to bed,” Eddie insisted. “Bev, are you going to be okay for your flight tomorrow?”</p><p>“Hmm?” she sleepily muttered, her face mashed against Ben’s chest.</p><p>“I’ll get her there on time,” Ben promised, that smile that hadn’t aged a day softening his features. “Hey Bill, have you told Mike yet? About Audra…”</p><p>Bill blinked slowly and then blinked again, some of the fog of drunken sleepiness sloughing away. “I sh-should call him.”</p><p>Ben nodded, his big hand painfully gentle where it ran up and down Bev’s arm in soothing strokes.</p><p>Bill abruptly stood, dislodging Richie who whined in annoyance, the giant baby. “I – I’m gonna go call Mike,” Bill repeated and Eddie stared up at him vaguely alarmed and also very pissed about how Richie was <em>absolutely right </em>about the Bill/Mike situation. Luckily, Richie was too tired to properly gloat. “I – uh – goodnight guys,” Bill finished lamely, marching into the hall and leaving his luggage where it had been abandoned in the doorway. Eddie heard him stumble all the way to his room.</p><p>“<em>Okaaaaay</em>. Bye Bill,” Richie said, laughing a little and leaning onto the table with his elbows, his eyes mostly closed.</p><p>“Alright,” Eddie clapped, startling Richie. “Ben, make sure Bev drinks some water before she goes to sleep. And text me if her travel plans change.”</p><p>“Will do, Eddie,” Ben answered, turning the open adoration he’d been directing at Bev towards Eddie. “And you’ll take care of Richie?”</p><p>Richie grumbled and frowned, mock-offended.</p><p>“Of course,” Eddie answered easily. As if he’d ever do anything else.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Richie has a sad romantic history and you can't change my mind about it.</p><p>Thanks for reading! 😚</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Chapter Eighteen</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: drunkenness and somewhat functioning alcoholism, jerking off, mentions of past internalized homophobia, and two adult men with boundary issues.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>One of the weirder nights of Richie’s life (normal human weird, not space monster weird – how fucking insane was it <em>that</em> had to be specified) ended like this:</p><p> </p><p class="scriptpg">INT. THE TOZIER-KASPBRAK-(NEWLY)DENBOROUGH ESTATE – EVENING</p><p> </p><p class="scriptpg">RIHCIE (a drunk, gay, heartbroken disaster) teeters heavily on the edge of his chair.</p><p> </p><p class="scriptpg">RICHIE</p><p class="scriptpg">I know I’ll never love</p><p class="scriptpg">anyone like I loved your</p><p class="scriptpg">mother but I think I’m</p><p class="scriptpg">gonna marry my bed.</p><p> </p><p class="scriptpg">EDDIE (perfect, fucking beautiful, still wearing his tie from work which is just too fucking handsome for Richie to handle) stands and approaches Richie who tries whole-heartedly not to flinch away from him.</p><p>                              </p><p class="scriptpg">EDDIE</p><p class="scriptpg">I feel like I have to advise</p><p class="scriptpg">against that. The divorce</p><p class="scriptpg">rate in this group is three</p><p class="scriptpg">for three.</p><p> </p><p class="scriptpg">RICHIE</p><p class="scriptpg">You’re forgetting Stan.</p><p> </p><p class="scriptpg">Eddie finches and Richie hates himself.</p><p> </p><p class="scriptpg">RICHIE (cont’d)</p><p class="scriptpg">And divorce isn’t the worst</p><p class="scriptpg">thing in the world.</p><p> </p><p class="scriptpg">EDDIE</p><p class="scriptpg">Tell that to my bank account.</p><p> </p><p class="scriptpg">RICHIE</p><p class="scriptpg">It means someone cared</p><p class="scriptpg">about you once. Enough to</p><p class="scriptpg">think ‘I want this forever.’</p><p class="scriptpg">and maybe that’s... kinda</p><p class="scriptpg">nice.</p><p> </p><p>“You don’t really mean that?” Eddie said, less a question than a command even though his voice had pitched down to something that sounded horribly like hurt. It jerked Richie out of his drunken stupor and belatedly he rewound the tape, reviewing the trash he’d let leak out of his mouth and drawing a blank.</p><p>Luckily Eddie was around to fill him in. “Bev and Tom… me and Myra, that wasn’t ‘<em>nice</em>,’ Richie.”</p><p>And okay, <em>now </em>Richie felt like a real asshole which wasn’t anything new but also sucked extra hard when Eddie was spearing into him with those fucking Bambi eyes.</p><p>“You’re – shit, you’re right Eds. Forget I said anything, I’m fucking drunk. I’ve gotta go sleep this off.”</p><p>Richie heaved himself to his feet, the world spinning slightly at the change in altitude. He wasn’t as drunk as he could have been. Bev hadn’t let him outpace her and they’d started with beers instead of diving straight into hard liquor like Richie would have done were he alone.</p><p>Then, when his words started slurring a little too much, she had sneakily ordered him take out (Indian food; she’d ordered her own meal to match which shouldn’t have been adorable but Richie was a weak, weak man) so he wasn’t functioning on an empty stomach which was probably a good thing. Her thoughtfulness maybe made his drunk-ass a little teary but Richie still wasn’t used to anyone caring about him unless he was paying them to do so.</p><p>The whole ordeal of drinking with Bev had been both cripplingly mortifying and upsettingly comfortable. Bev wasn’t mad at him or disappointed that he was riding the line of being a mostly functional alcoholic. She just wanted him to look after himself while he was imbibing. She told him so an embarrassing amount of times over the last couple hours. Richie would have hated it more if didn’t make it so obvious Bev loved him and Richie was a dry sponge for that sort of shit.</p><p>“Okay,” Eddie said, voice still hurt. “Let’s get you to bed.”</p><p>“I can manage on my own,” Richie grumbled, immediately stubbing his toe on the table leg with a loud thunk. Thankfully, he reigned in his whimper because one of Eddie’s perfect eyebrows was determinedly climbing his forehead.</p><p>Eddie stood up as well, fiddling with his rolled shirt sleeves which just, fucking, <em>did things </em>to Richie that he really couldn’t handle right now because he had to stop wanting. That was the conclusion he’d come to on his own during his marathon facetime with Bev in which Eddie’s name had come up exactly once and never again because Richie full on nearly had a breakdown when Bev tried to hedge the subject.</p><p>It wasn’t like Richie could <em>stop loving Eddie</em> – if that was possible, he’d have done it in high school when he spent every night tearing himself apart with self-hatred - but he had to tuck those feelings into a really nice box and slide it away somewhere deep inside him so he could be the kind of friend Eddie deserved. The kind of friend who wasn’t a massive fucking creep who lusted after a glimpse of forearm like some sort of repressed pervert.</p><p>Then Eddie ruined everything about that plan by holding out his arm like he expected Richie to step into it and saying, “We’re going to the same place anyways, come on,” and just… that was so deeply unfair.</p><p>Dazed and drunk and too greedy to deny himself, he let Eddie lay a hand on the small of his back and forced himself to pretend electricity hadn’t nearly fizzled him into a piece of burnt toast at that tiny, insignificant contact that guided him towards the hall with both their bedrooms.</p><p>From the other side of the house, Richie could faintly hear Bill’s voice as he spoke on the phone, fading as they got further from Bill’s room. “How long do you think before Mike makes a move?” Richie asked, trying to be congenial and normal and not a total wreck.</p><p>“What makes you so sure it won’t be Bill making the moves?”</p><p>“Bill hasn’t even figured out his thing for Mike is a crush yet,” Richie insisted, inching closer to his open bedroom door and therefore freedom. He was pretty sure he had a little bit more crying in him before he fell asleep and he was really looking forward to getting that out of the way so he could pass the fuck out.</p><p>“How the fuck could you possibly know that?” Eddie demanded, his indignation negated by the yawn that punctuated his question.</p><p>“He gave you so much shit for being bi which, <em>byyyyy </em>the way,” he elbowed Eddie to make sure he caught the horrible pun and Eddie rolled his eyes but suppressed a smile, “I don’t think I said so earlier but I’m really proud of you, bud.” Ugh, why did that come out sounding so <em>condescending</em>? “And –” Richie swallowed down bile, “- congratulations on getting your first dude-smooch. Big day for Eds.”</p><p>Eddie, the darling fucking bastard, blushed, a line of pink tinging his cheekbones and Richie was so utterly fucked, he had to get away <em>now</em> or he was going to do something stupid like wrap Eddie up in his arms and beg him to never leave.</p><p>Richie roughly cleared his throat. “Anywho, time to tuck in,” he said as he swiveled, aiming for his door but Eddie’s hand on Richie’s waist dropped to grab him by the back of his belt, physically hauling him away from his bedroom.</p><p>Fuck Richie <em>loved </em>him and, thanks to the manhandling (which was just, like, <em>what</em>) now his dick was present and accounted for despite the buzz of alcohol coursing through his blood. Oh and also, <em>what the actual fuck</em>?</p><p>“Where are you going?” Eddie demanded.</p><p>“To bed?” Richie answered, <em>so </em>very confused.</p><p>“Why in there?”</p><p>“Because that is where my bed is? Remember? The one I’m gonna marry?” Eddie didn’t seem<em> too </em>drunk but maybe Richie was a bad judge of that at the moment.</p><p>“You’re sleeping with me, dipshit,” Eddie snapped, both his hands landing on either side of Richie’s hips (<em>wow</em>) right before he started trying to bodily shove Richie towards the master bedroom.</p><p>“<em>What</em>?!” Richie said in a high voice that <em>definitely</em> wasn’t a squeak, planting himself as firmly on the ground as he could when his legs were jelly from tequila and boner-induced blood redistribution and the absolute euphoric agony of hearing Eddie no-nonsense voice echoing, ‘<em>you’re sleeping with me</em>’ in the blank void that had replaced Richie’s cognitive thinking skills.</p><p>“Asshole, have you already fucking forgot? We decided last night, its better if we sleep together.”</p><p>‘<em>Sleep together</em>,’ Richie’s void unhelpfully repeated while Richie’s heart chugged like a broken down car trying turning over.</p><p>And okay, Richie actually <em>had </em>forgotten about that tentative agreement as soon as Eddie announced to the group he was going on a date. Honestly, Richie had forgotten <em>a lot </em>of things when that happened, like how to function like a normal person. Case in point: when Eddie had gotten home and shouted out a greeting, Richie had literally dropped to the floor behind the kitchen counter to hide from him. Because he was sane.</p><p>“Dude, you just went on a date!” Richie reminded Eddie, on the off chance that had somehow slipped his memory.</p><p>“So?” Eddie asked, annoyed-angry and frowning so hard his dimples threatened to come out to play. Was there anyone else on earth who got dimples from <em>frowning</em>? Richie didn’t think so. It was one of the <em>many </em>reasons why Eddie was the only man he could ever love.</p><p>“I’m not – I don’t want <em>sloppy seconds</em>!” Richie hissed, which while technically true on an emotional level was also tantamount to a lie because Richie wanted Eddie in any capacity and at all times. If Eddie had dropped his pants in the sewer and demanded Richie eat him out, Richie would have buried his face in that perfect ass and loved every second of it even if he died of some rare sewer-butt parasite the next day.</p><p>“I didn’t fucking <em>sleep </em>with him,” Eddie hissed, doubling his efforts to shove Richie towards the master bedroom and the little bastard was <em>strong</em>. Richie had to stretch out and cling to his own doorframe to keep himself from budging. “What, do you want me to take a fucking shower, you prude?”</p><p>“How am <em>I </em>the prude?!”</p><p>“That’s what I’m fucking asking!”</p><p>And okay, yeah, they were maybe slightly shouting but <em>so what</em>. It was their fucking house. And Bill was no stranger to their raised voices.</p><p>“How are you going to explain platonically sleeping with another man to <em>Aaron</em>?” Richie asked, hating how much his tone gave away.</p><p>“Why the fuck would I explain that to him?” Eddie fumed, latching onto Richie’s belt like he thought Richie might make a run for it (which he absolutely would the second Eddie let him go) and bizarrely lifting his legs to peel off first one sock, then the other.</p><p>Oh perfect. Now Eddie was <em>undressing </em>while his hand was firmly planted in an area of Richie’s body that wasn’t <em>not </em>dick-adjacent. <em>What the fuck was going on</em>?</p><p>“Dude,” Richie said, mostly on a huffy exhale. “You probably owe it to your boyfriend to not sleep with other guys.”</p><p>Eddie scoffed. “He’s not my <em>boyfriend</em>. We went on <em>one date</em>, Richie. One boring, lackluster date.”</p><p>And okay, Richie was <em>garbage </em>but hearing that Eddie had a less than stellar time out on his date was a profound relief. Eddie, seemingly sensing Richie’s momentary weakness, let go of Richie’s belt and grabbed one of Richie’s arm, slotting his bony-ass shoulder against Richie’s stomach and <em>heaving</em> until Richie’s feet left the ground.</p><p>“<em>Whaaa</em>,” Richie nonsensically breathed, shocked at finding himself slung over Eddie’s back in a fucking fireman’s carry. Eddie, all five-foot-nine of him, still wearing his white button up shirt from work and a fucking <em>tie</em>, bare feet steady on the wood flooring, was <em>carrying Richie to his bedroom</em>. They were already through the door. Richie was going to <em>swoon</em>.</p><p>Unfortunately, Eddie didn’t toss him onto the bed and ravish him but rather trekked solidly to the very-recently finished ensuite bathroom and deposited Richie on his own two wobbly legs right in the middle of the room.</p><p>“<em>Uhhh</em>,” Richie thoughtfully said, fucking <em>floored</em>. Eddie had the audacity to look smug – that absolute fucker – before he darted out of the room, back again before Richie’s brain had figured out how to reboot. Then Eddie was thrusting Richie’s toothbrush into Richie’s pliant hands and shoving him towards the sink.</p><p>“Brush your teeth and take a leak,” Eddie ordered, still smiling in a cocky way that was unbearably sexy, backing out of the bathroom and closing the door behind him.</p><p>So Richie robotically brushed his teeth because there was nothing else he could convince his brain to do, making shocked, <em>horny</em> eye-contact with himself in the mirror.</p><p>Eddie had <em>picked Richie up and carried him</em>. Eddie. Edward Kaspbrak. Tiny fucking baby Eds. Had picked up <em>Richie</em>. Like it was no big fucking deal.</p><p>Richie knew Eddie was strong, knew he went to the gym and worked out and lifted weights and fucking whatevered around on an elliptical (Richie had no idea what the fuck people did at the gym). Richie had seen (and endlessly obsessed over) Eddie’s abs and his arms and his muscle-corded legs.</p><p>But Richie was a big guy; both needlessly tall and getting to be a little soft around the middle. And - with the exception of Ben carrying him into the ER (which, on principle, didn’t fucking count because he was dying) and the one time Eddie put him on his shoulders in the pool (which was definitely some sort of cheating) - it had been a<em> long time </em>since someone had picked Richie up off the ground and carried him. Like, a <em>very </em>long time. Not since he was a kid and he outgrew everyone but Mike.</p><p>After three seconds of furious self-loathing, Richie shoved a hand into his jeans, the pull on his belt re-inspiring the sense memory of Eddie’s hand there just moments ago. It almost only took the fumblings of trying to semi-drunkenly yank his dick out of his fly but he squeezed in a series of frantic tugs before he was sent careening over the edge in what had to be a record-breaking orgasm in terms of speed and intensity.</p><p>One more thing to shove in that box of Eddie feelings he had to do something with in his mind.</p><p>As he came down from his unexpected climax, panting like he’d just run a marathon and faintly concerned Eddie might have heard him grunt or something while he was in the throes of ecstasy, Richie surveyed Eddie’s nice updated bathroom in a cum-dumb daze.</p><p>The room was dominated by a massive tub (that even Richie would fit in so it must dwarf Eddie – fuck, they could probably fit in there together – ‘<em>why the fuck would you think about that</em>!’ his dick screamed as it tried, valiantly, to thicken again but ultimately failed) and a beautiful glass walled shower with a bench and at least three different ways for water to come out of the walls. A row of classy vintage looking vanity lights over the sink provided a soft, almost sensual glow to all the dark wood and tile.</p><p>Okay, maybe Richie was reading into the lighting because his hand was still on his dick and he was still debilitating turned on despite having <em>just </em>cum but whatever.</p><p>When he finally managed to settle into a relatively normal breathing pattern, he glared down at the streaks of cum he’d painted across Eddie’s new marble countertop. Grateful he was drunk and therefore only capable of feeling a finite amount of shame, Richie hurriedly cleaned up his mess, pointedly refusing to steal a glance at himself in the mirror until everything was wiped up with toilet paper and flushed away.</p><p>Then, because he was drunk and panicking, he splashed some water on the countertop to make the scene less incriminatingly clean. <em>Then</em> he remembered he needed to pee and was briefly distracted from his own distress by the fancy-ass toilet Eddie had picked out that didn’t have a visible tank and instead was mounted directly on the wall, hovering over the floor like some sort of sci-fi monstrosity.</p><p>God, even Eddie’s weird taste in toilets made Richie’s heart pound. What the fuck was wrong with him?</p><p>When he finally worked up the nerve to open the door, Eddie was only a few steps away, standing at his open closet and tugging off his tie (<em>ugh</em>, that tie). He had already pulled off his pants, only a faint hint of black boxer briefs visibly below the hem of his white button up.</p><p>Richie decided in that moment that death would have been less cruel.</p><p>“Did you puke?” Eddie asked, deft fingers untying the knot at his throat and sliding the tie out through the collar with a faint <em>shhhh</em> that tried to bury itself in Richie’s soul.</p><p>“No? Should I have?”</p><p>“<em>No</em>,” Eddie huffed out a noise that was almost amusement. “I thought I heard you gag.”</p><p>‘<em>Oh I’m gagging for it</em>,’ Richie’s brain unhelpfully almost shoved out his mouth like projectile vomit and he only swallowed it down because he was already choking on his own spit. So Eddie had heard him jerk off. Awesome. That was just. Great.</p><p>“<em>Nope</em>!” Richie croaked, wondering what the fuck he was doing. He glanced at the bed, huge and inviting, and tried not to gape at Eddie who had stripped down to a white t-shirt and his boxer briefs. Quickly Richie’s eyes darted to the door while he calculated the odds of escaping but Eddie, seemingly reading his mind, pointed a finger at Richie threateningly and barked out, “I will haul your ass right back in here, dude,” in warning and Richie was pretty sure if he hadn’t just cum his eyeballs out, he’d do it again at that threat alone.</p><p>“That’s only encouraging me to try,” Richie chuffed, trying to land a joke, but Eddie gave him A Look and he held up his hands in submission.</p><p>Eddie brushed past Richie on his way to the bathroom leaving the door open in his wake. Richie, who still couldn’t bring himself to crawl into Eddie’s bed like he belonged there because that was the kind of thing he could never recover from, hovered anxiously in the middle of the room, wandering over to peer into Eddie’s closet.</p><p>It was neatly organized if a little bare. Richie remembered too well the day Eddie had furiously dug through his suitcases in a minor freak out and donated almost half of what he’d packed, eyes serious and dark until Richie snatched up the smallest looking polo in the pile and crammed his huge, lumpy body into it and marched around the room doing his best Eddie impression (which was decent but still at least 40% inspired by Eddie as a teenager instead of Eddie as an adult – though honestly there wasn’t too much difference).</p><p>Eddie had thrown a fucking fit and then stormed into Richie’s room, pulled on one of Richie’s colorful shirts (again, <em>swoon</em>), and done his own impression of Richie which was hilarious and shockingly accurate. They’d spent the rest of the night mocking each other performatively until Bill came over unannounced and declared the whole thing ‘<em>too f-fucking weird, what the fuck guys</em>’. As if he didn’t build his career on murdering children graphically in novel format. The hypocrite.</p><p>Bev’s suit had a place of pride in Eddie’s closet, hanging on the back of the open door right next to the mirror. Richie absently fingered the material.</p><p>“’Re you fugging mad at me or wha?” Eddie bit out, his mouth stuffed with a toothbrush, and the thought was so baffling Richie gaped.</p><p>“Why would I be mad at you?”</p><p>“<em>I don’t know</em>, <em>you tell me</em>!” Eddie glared at Richie hard as he furiously brushed his teeth – probably too hard, pointed out the part of Richie’s brain still very much the son of a dentist. When Richie did nothing but stand there, mouth open in confusion, Eddie spat into the sink and hissed, “You got all weird when I said I got my first blow job from a guy!”</p><p>Richie grimaced and a look of triumph passed over Eddie’s face. “I fucking <em>knew it</em>. You’re <em>weird </em>about the whole bi thing, aren’t you?”</p><p>A laugh burst out of Richie unbidden. “Dude, I’m fucking <em>gay</em>. And yeah, okay, I’m probably one of those self-hating gays – I’m fucking working on that –” he added as an aside at Eddie’s crestfallen face, “- but I’m not mad at <em>other</em> people for being not-straight.”</p><p>Eddie had a little smear of toothpaste at the corner of his mouth and Richie was fucking heartbroken over it – the domesticity of it, how sleepy-and-a-little-drunk Eddie was, standing at the bathroom sink in his underwear instead of pulling on his way too nice pajama pants. It was a stolen moment and Richie, for the gajillionth time that night, felt like a fucking creep. He dropped his eyes to the carpet to avoid staring.</p><p>“Then what was with the whole ‘<em>the universe hates me</em>’ shit?”</p><p>Oh. <em>Oh</em>. That was not Richie’s proudest moment.</p><p>“Fucking nothing, dude, don’t worry about it,” Richie grumbled, briefly debating if he could make a dash for his bedroom before Eddie caught up to him. Eddie seemingly sensed his thoughts because he rinsed his mouth, wiped off that unbearably adorable smear of toothpaste, and leaned against the doorframe with his insanely toned arms crossed and on full display like a challenge.</p><p>“<em>Rich</em>,” Eddie said, and fuck, why was everyone always saying Richie’s name like that? So fucking <em>disappointed</em>.</p><p>“I mean, don’t you think the universe hates you a bit, too?” Richie started, aiming for distraction. “I think it hates all of us. The clown, the amnesia. Your mother-wife and Bev’s father-husband. Mike stuck in Derry and Ben so fucking alone. Stan…” Richie fought of a wave of melancholy. “Then the clown <em>again</em>, plus Bowers and his stupid fucking knife…”</p><p>Eddie’s scowl wrinkled the skin on his forehead and Richie wanted desperately to press a kiss to those furrows to smooth them out. “Things have been better lately,” Eddie said, voice the closest to gentle he ever got with Richie.</p><p>“Yeah, no, totally,” Richie agreed, emphatically. “But there’s still all the other stuff, you know?” Richie emphasized his statement with a wild eyebrow wiggle and a head jerk like he was referring to everything behind him. The past. All those previous mistakes that weren’t as easy to crush as a child-eating space monster’s heart. “And all the other stuff sucks.”</p><p>And <em>there </em>was the pity Richie knew was coming, gruff but undeniable, spread across Eddie’s face like a layer of paint. Richie had let himself get a little too drunk and little too open once Bill started pouring shots – that was always the problem with the Losers, they demanded the Truth from him even when they weren’t playing games and that awful greedy pit inside Richie <em>wanted </em>to be known even if it horrified everyone who ever caught a glimpse of it.</p><p>But Eddie was standing there, unbearably vulnerable in his underclothes and looking at Richie like he’d just been told Santa wasn’t real (which wasn’t something Richie had to infer, that was something that happened and Richie could use his memory of the expression on Eddie’s nine-year-old face for direct comparison and it was <em>uncanny</em>). Richie couldn’t stand seeing him like that, uncharacteristically quiet and thoughtful and so fucking <em>sad</em>.</p><p>“I was <em>jealous</em>, okay?” Richie blurted, his cheeks warming to an uncomfortable degree. “You just fucking <em>exist</em> and a dude comes onto you - a dude fucking <em>blows </em>you - and you’re so fucking blasé about it like ‘<em>oh yeah, maybe I like guys,</em> <em>la di da, on with my fucking life</em>’. Did you even freak out about it?”</p><p>Eddie sucked in his cheek, the one with the scar, and dolefully shook his head.</p><p>“And you freak out about <em>everything</em>!” Okay, maybe Richie needed to try to tone that down but now that this poison was coming out of his mouth, he couldn’t stop it if he tried. “Meanwhile, at that exact moment a thousand miles away, I was trying <em>so fucking hard </em>to be noticed by a guy - <em>any </em>fucking guy - and fucking <em>hating </em>myself for it.”</p><p>Worse than that, Richie now had to live with the horrible ghost of possibility creeping into the holes in his heart. If Richie had <em>known </em>Eddie wouldn’t be opposed to a guy going down on him, Richie would have dropped to his knees when he was thirteen and first heard that some people put dicks inside their mouths to provide pleasure. And if he’d done <em>that</em>, maybe Eddie would have been his, would <em>still </em>be his. Maybe Richie would have worked up the nerve to tag along with him to New York and squatted in Eddie’s dorm and talked him into wearing a ring long before they could legally tie the knot.</p><p>“But,” Richie continued, shaking himself from that useless fantasy, “I was scared out of my mind to even, like, <em>look </em>at a guy so I didn’t let myself until I was nearly thirty and even then, I was so fucking repressed I had to be wasted even just to kiss…”</p><p>Eddie’s eyes sharpened but Richie rushed on before he could be reprimanded for <em>that</em> on top of everything else.</p><p>“So no, I’m not <em>mad </em>at you, Eddie. Or at Mike, Mr. Smirky Emoji, Farmhand Romance Novel Teenage Years.” Eddie’s eyebrows tried valiantly to leave his forehead and yeah, okay, so Richie definitely sounded a little bitter but whatever. Richie was an asshole. That wasn’t news. “I’m <em>not </em>mad at you guys. I’m mad at <em>myself</em>.”</p><p>“Richie,” Eddie sighed, padding over and gripping Richie’s shoulders tightly, one in each hand. It was a stance most often taken with their roles reversed, Richie trying to talk Eddie down from an anxiety attack, grounding him in the moment. The idea that Eddie was doing that for <em>him </em>now made Richie want to cry.</p><p>“You are <em>So. Fucking. Stupid</em>.” He emphasized each word by shaking Richie firmly. “How come you forgive me for marrying my mother, or Bev for marrying her dad, or fucking Bill for being <em>such </em>a shitty author, but you can’t forgive yourself?”</p><p>Richie’s mouth opened but all that came out was the horrible clicking noise his throat made against his will.</p><p>“You said it before, Richie. Arrested development. You were afraid, just like Bev and I were afraid of relationships we didn’t already have a playbook for and Bill was afraid of - I don’t fucking know – writing a fucking outline or some shit.”</p><p>Richie huffed a surprised laugh out his nose.</p><p>Then Eddie fucking threw Richie for a loop by vehemently admitting, “I hate every person who ever touched you and didn’t make you feel loved.”</p><p>And wow, Richie was pretty sure that he was still standing but he felt like he’d just been clobbered over the head.</p><p>“<em>Eds</em>,” Richie gasped – genuinely, pearl-clutchingly gasped – and just <em>what the fuck </em>was his heart supposed to do when Eddie said something like that? Cause it was trying to fucking climb up Richie’s throat and down Eddie’s so it could live there inside his chest where it clearly belonged.</p><p>“And who the fuck is Anthony Perkins?” Eddie demanded but before Richie could answer (or figure out why Eddie had so radically changed the subject), Eddie continued, “Some jackass <em>let </em>you get him off? As if that was a fucking privilege? Fuck him! And fuck that lady-neighbor who, by the way Richie, <em>obviously </em>took advantage of you – you were still a fucking kid and she – <em>nope</em>,” Eddie cut himself off, shaking his head furiously. “I’m so genuinely concerned about your sex life I can’t fucking stand it.”</p><p>“Gee thanks Spaghetti,” Richie grumbled sarcastically, mortified to his fucking soul but also pathetically <em>thrilled </em>that Eddie cared. Fuck, Richie was so desperate for a scrap of affection he’d take <em>anything </em>and twist it into something meaningful.</p><p>“Seriously, Richie. Your dick makes bad decisions,” Eddie said, doe eyes dark and sincere and trying to <em>beam </em>his convictions straight into Richie’s brain.</p><p>Oh <em>fuck</em>. The dichotomy of Eddie’s words his obvious gravity started Richie laughing, quietly at first but growing into full on hysterics. Richie was <em>in love</em> and there was no way he’d <em>ever </em>be able to lock that shit away somewhere inside of himself. Mostly because he didn’t want to but also because Eddie was just so goddamn easy to love.</p><p>“You don’t even know the half of it,” Richie admitted, immediately regretting it when Eddie’s eyes narrowed dangerously. Then his mouth said, “I mean, I’m clean!” and Richie wished he <em>had </em>been clobbered over the head. <em>What</em>. Why the<em> fuck </em>had he said <em>that</em>? “So no lasting damage done.” Phew. <em>Good save</em>.</p><p>Eddie’s hands, which <em>still </em>were on Richie’s shoulders absolutely burning through the holey (and faintly snot crusty) t-shirt Richie had been wearing since he went to bed the night before, gripped him fiercely, his fingers digging into his skin in ten distinct spots that Richie irrationally hoped would bruise.</p><p>“You can’t fuck anymore assholes, Richie,” Eddie commanded extremely seriously, and yup, there was Richie’s dick, inviting itself to the party again. Fuck, bossy Eddie <em>did things </em>to Richie.</p><p>“Technically usually it’s <em>my </em>asshole getting fucked,” Richie faintly replied on autopilot and Eddie’s face went lax, eyes <em>super </em>wide when he blinked once, then twice, his mouth moving around a thought he didn’t wind up voicing. “So…”</p><p>“W-Well you can’t let just any dipshit do that, either,” Eddie said, his voice weirdly hoarse. Richie furiously told himself not to read into that.</p><p>“What, my future <em>lovers</em> need the Spaghetti Stamp of Approval to ride the Toze?” Richie joked, hyperaware this was veering into some weird fucking territory but kinda low-key horny about it.</p><p>“That’s fucking right,” Eddie bit out, then grimaced. “That’s not – <em>fuck</em>.” He visibly gathered himself, taking in a long breath through his nose. “<em>What I meant</em> is you have friends now and we aren’t gonna be <em>okay </em>with you throwing yourself at some shit stain who doesn’t deserve you,” Eddie grumbled, releasing Richie’s shoulders and kind of dragging (<em>caressing?</em>) his fingers down Richie’s biceps, curling his palms briefly around Richie’s forearms before his touch disappeared completely. Richie was <em>on fire</em>. “We’re here to take care of you now. Which is why I’m telling you: take off your pants and get in bed. You need to go the fuck to sleep.”</p><p>And yup, wow, Richie was forty and he’d <em>just </em>jerked off but his dick was trying to fatten up in his jeans. <em>Really </em>fucking trying. And somehow Richie was also on the verge of tears, a combination he would have previously thought impossible but <em>here he fucking was</em>.</p><p>Luckily Eddie had turned, stomping around to the far side of the bed to fuck around with something on the nightstand. In the lapse of his attention, Richie pulled his phone out of his pocket and tossed it in the general direction of the pillows, shucking off his pants as fast as possible, and diving under the covers because he was definitely popping half a chub and Eddie <em>definitely</em> didn’t need to see that.</p><p>Eddie settled in beside him like this was routine – and technically it was, they’d slept together for a month and a half. Since Derry they’d spent more nights in the same bed than apart. But it hadn’t stopped making Richie’s heart race and he didn’t think it ever would.</p><p>Once Richie stopped nervously flopping around, trying to find a position that wasn’t too obviously Eddie-oriented or likely to accidentally brush his genitals against his unwitting bed-mate, Eddie asked, “You good?” plucking the glasses right off Richie’s face at his affirmative hum before turning off the light.</p><p>In the dark, Eddie shifted, the bed dipping as he settled in, scooting needlessly close to Richie when there was enough room to comfortably sleep a whole extra person if not two. But the warmth along Richie’s arm was as comfortable as it was unbearable and, after the longest day of his life that didn’t include any aliens or cops or hard drugs, Richie was shockingly close to passing out.</p><p>‘<em>I want this forever</em>,’ his brain traitorously whispered, the last spark of conscious thought as Eddie shuffled closer until his forehead was pressed against Richie’s shoulder and Richie exhaled a shuddering breath.</p><p>“’Night, asshole,” Eddie mumbled into the sleeve of Richie’s t-shirt.</p><p>‘<em>I want forever with you</em>,’ Richie thought before he dropped into a dead sleep.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>Eddie woke up with a headache, the sound of his alarm extra grating and completely ineffective at shaking off his momentary disorientation.</p><p>He was laying mostly diagonal across the bed, his legs kicked over a warm body (<em>Richie</em>, his brain helpfully filed in) and even with the faint pounding nudging at his temples, he was shockingly comfortable. The blinds weren’t entirely closed so the room was brighter than it should have been, and he had seemingly forgotten to grab a water bottle before he went to bed so his dry mouth had no chance of reprieve but he had absolutely no desire to move.</p><p>It took him longer than it should have to remember there was a reason he’d set his alarm.</p><p>Thank fucking christ he didn’t have to go into work – Fridays and Mondays were his remote days and even though he normally logged on at precisely 8:30am with a banana and a bowl of cereal at the kitchen table (and coffee too if Richie was awake so they could sip together companionably from mismatched cups), he let himself hit snooze four times before his parched throat insisted he get up.</p><p>He navigated the house with his eyes mostly closed, grabbed two bottles of water (one for Richie when he woke up), and dragged his computer into the bedroom where he logged onto work and left his laptop open on the floor next to the bed, promptly falling back to sleep with his fingers looped around Richie’s wrist at his pulse point.</p><p>The next time Eddie stirred it was because something had beeped.</p><p>Eddie thought, at first, it was a message from work so he fumbled for his laptop to find that nothing had happened in the – holy shit – more than <em>two hours </em>since he’d last been awake. It was nearly eleven o’clock, practically lunch time, and Eddie hadn’t done a fucking thing for work.</p><p>After a moment of quiet debate, Eddie decided that was okay. So what if he spent a few hours slacking off? He was allowed that every once in a while. Richie insisted that was half the point of working from home in the first place but he also practically had to be chained to his desk to get any writing done so the guy was obviously a bad influence.</p><p>Next Eddie consulted his phone, plugged in and fully charged waiting for him on the nightstand where he found a string of messages from Bev starting at the ungodly hour of 3am because her flight was early and there was a three hour time difference between LA and New York. The poor woman had probably barely gotten in one REM cycle before she had to brave JFK.</p><p>
  <em>Bev: kill me</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bev: im dying</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bev: im never drinking again</em>
</p><p>There was a slight break there – Eddie guessed as she worked her way through airport security.</p><p>
  <em>Bev: nvm had a breakfast sandwich and feel better</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bev: on the plane!</em>
</p><p><em>Bev:  </em><strong>✈</strong><strong>️</strong> <strong>✈</strong><strong>️</strong> <strong>✈</strong><strong>️</strong></p><p>
  <em>Bev: coming to uuuuuu!</em>
</p><p>There was another long break before she started messaging again about an hour ago.</p><p>
  <em>Bev: landed!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bev: going to work for a few hrs (bleh) but will text when im free! cant wait to see u!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Bev: (PS i brought a surprise!!!)</em>
</p><p>Eddie wondered whether Bev had sent anyone else this string of texts (after all both Richie and Bill now lived in the same place she’d be staying and might appreciate being kept in the loop) but he doubted it. She was probably doing it for Eddie’s benefit. He got nervous when people traveled alone and her wash of texts were massively reassuring even if he’d slept through the entire thing.</p><p>Still only half awake, Eddie texted back, ‘<em>What’s the surprise?</em>’ and set his phone aside, flopping onto his back and scooting towards the radiator heat of Richie’s sleeping body. Before he could properly wedge himself in the space between Richie’s shoulder and the mattress, something buzzed right under Eddie’s pillow and he frowned, sliding his hand around until he found Richie’s phone with a calendar notification on the screen and only three percent battery life.</p><p>Eddie wracked his brain for if Richie had mentioned a meeting or a recording but he was coming up blank. <em>Then again</em>, Richie hadn’t really talked to him much yesterday so for all Eddie knew, he had a fucking Skype call with Steven Spielberg or some shit.</p><p>Worried Richie would sleep through something important, Eddie dialed in Richie’s passcode (the last four digits of Eddie’s childhood house phone number – when Richie had rattled off the numbers to Eddie because his hands were covered in blue paint and he’d designated Eddie temporary Spotify DJ, a million memories of dialing those digits slammed back into Eddie’s brain like a gunshot and, considering Richie’s blindsided look of shock, he hadn’t realized why he’d chosen those numbers as his passcode until that moment, either).</p><p>Still not sure what to make of that or the fact that his fingers tapped in the code like a muscle memory, Eddie unlocked Richie’s phone and blinked at the notification.</p><p><em>11am:</em> <em>Remember the Losers</em>.</p><p>Huh.</p><p>Eddie swiped back to the calendar and saw that every Friday bore a grey mark indicating an event. <em>11am: Remember the Losers</em>. Going back further, <em>every day</em> of September had the same message. And the alerts continued on weekly as far as Eddie scrolled forward until he gave up on finding the end of it somewhere in late 2025.</p><p>Eddie darkened the screen and rolled over, plugging Richie’s phone into the charger on his nightstand.</p><p>For reasons Eddie didn’t want to evaluate when he was still dehydrated and slightly hungover, he hadn’t dared look too closely at Richie yet but he forced himself to now, turning his head slowly like Richie might pop up and jump-scare him if he moved too quickly even though he was faintly snoring and obviously fast asleep.</p><p>Richie was lying on his stomach, his face mostly mashed into a pillow, eyes flickering under his closed lids. He had kicked the sheets down to tangle with his legs, his shirt ridden up in the night, leaving Eddie a nearly unobstructed view of his boxer-brief clad ass before the backs of his hairy thighs disappeared in a tangle of blankets.</p><p>Richie was going to be the death of him, Eddie was fucking sure of it.</p><p>Now that he wasn’t drunk or tired or faintly shell-shocked about Bill announcing his plans for a divorce, he could finally re-evaluate the events of the night before.</p><p>Yeah, Eddie had known in a roundabout sort of way that Richie had struggled in the twenty-ish years they were apart. Happy people didn’t famously tear up Chicago in a bender or go to rehab <em>three times</em> or drive their cars off cliffs (Eddie’s heart pounded anxiously in his chest at the memory of coming across that particular headline in the checkout aisle at the grocery store in 2007, a sick dread overtaking him so completely he convinced himself he had food poisoning and rushed home to have a full blown panic attack in the bathroom).</p><p>But Eddie had thought (in hindsight quite foolishly) that Richie’s life couldn’t have been <em>that </em>bad. He hadn’t lived with the ghost of a half-remembered dead baby brother looming over him nor had he married someone abusive or spent the last two decades alone in Derry waiting for catastrophe to strike again. He had money and enough fame to feed his ego without it entirely disrupting his privacy and a career that would have made young-Richie cream his gaudy cargo shorts.</p><p>But Myra, despite her numerous flaws, had never made Eddie doubt she loved him. True, that love was toxic, but it came with a warped sort of comfort. Someone would care if he got hurt or died or drove himself off a cliff into the ocean (seriously, Richie <em>what the fuck</em>?).</p><p>And the sex he had with Myra, while awkward and stilted and generally unpleasant, was a task performed with mutual determination, both of them equally reluctant to engage and equally eager to give it up once it stopped feeling like a necessary ritual.</p><p>But Richie’s sexual history read like a fucking horror story - like one of Bill’s fucking books (evidenced by the liberal application of vomit). And hearing the ways Richie had been treated by his previous lovers filled Eddie with the kind of righteous indignation that had once motivated him to pick up a rock and bean Bowers in the fucking head except there was no easy target for a rock war to avenge Richie’s pains.</p><p>And then - as if he wasn’t fucking <em>losing his mind</em> over the mystery guy Richie didn’t even know the name of who gave him his first real kiss or the <em>instructor</em> who ‘let Richie get him off’ (which meant he was Richie’s <em>teacher</em>, which meant there was a power imbalance there too, did Richie find every creep within a ten mile radius like his dick was a sex-offender divining rod?) - thanks to a drunk, mouthy Richie, Eddie knew Richie fucking <em>bottomed</em>.</p><p>Now that was a word Eddie had given precisely zero thought to three months ago and yet somehow became one of his brain’s greatest obsessions since roughly twelve hours ago. Because apparently Richie had a preference. And it was that. Bottoming.</p><p>Eddie had no fucking clue if he himself had a preference (though the experience of putting his dick inside someone was one he very much enjoyed as long as the person in question wasn’t some fucked up Freudian stand in for his mother). But now he could, with some accuracy, picture what sex with Richie might be like on a logistical level. Not that he <em>wanted </em>to do that. Even when he’d been anticipating/dreading the possibility that he and Aaron might make it past their chaste peck goodbye, Eddie hadn’t really considered things like <em>positions</em>.</p><p>Which, fuck, maybe he should do some research. Actual research. Not porn.</p><p>(Maybe some porn.)</p><p>Considering Richie’s ass was <em>right there</em>, two divots on his back right above the waistband of his underwear, the bubble curve of his cheeks tightly incased in pickle-printed fabric, the whole thing looking way too fucking <em>squeezable</em>, Eddie was pretty sure he was on the verge of some sort of brain event, maybe an aneurism or a stroke or something.</p><p>And finding Richie’s fucking ‘<em>Remember the Losers</em>’ calendar event was only expediting Eddie’s imminent death-by-forehead-vein-explosion because his body was having some real weird responses to that; notably an elevated heart rate and a stirring in his underwear that Eddie could only assume was some sort of delayed, totally normal nocturnal penile tumescence.</p><p>His thoughts (which were valiantly trying to circle back to Richie’s ass) were interrupted by, of all fucking things, the doorbell. Richie grumbled quietly into the pillow and Eddie, figuring he probably should be up and at least pretending to work, reluctantly rolled out of bed.</p><p>He passed his strewn about socks in the hallway right outside his door and distractedly kicked them towards the pile of dirty laundry in Richie’s room, belatedly remembering he’d peeled them off there the night before so he wouldn’t slip on the hardwood and kill them both when he literally carried Richie to bed.</p><p>Eddie smirked to himself at the memory even if it was maybe a little embarrassing and definitely fueled by tequila and gin. His therapist would no doubt have things to say about <em>boundaries</em> and <em>consent</em> but the way Richie had gone quiet with shock was totally worth it. Plus, even after twenty years apart, Eddie knew the difference between Richie’s performative ‘no’s and the real ones, proven by the fact that Richie dropped off to sleep like a dead weight almost as soon as he’d crawled into the bed.</p><p>The doorbell rang again and Eddie, grumbling in annoyance, hurried through the house before whoever was at the door woke up all the sleeping drunkards.</p><p>It was too early for Bev to be done with work and no way Bill was awake and about – he’d downed half that bottle of tequila on his own last night – plus he had his own key so Eddie had no clue who it could be; maybe Steve come to herd Richie off to some audition in person or what if it was Audra changing her mind about Bill overnight? Because Eddie was <em>still</em> a little shocked they hadn’t worked it out. There hadn’t been any animosity between them but, he supposed, maybe there was more to a marriage than being able to be in the same room without hating each other.</p><p>Most likely it was some amazon delivery because both he and Richie were still slowly stocking and decorating the house. Despite insisting they have enough bedrooms for all the Losers, Richie hadn’t realized that meant he should probably own more than four and a half plates and an uneven mishmash of silverware stolen from restaurants that heavily and inexplicably favored spoons.</p><p>Whoever Eddie was expecting, it certainly wasn’t Ben, standing a few steps back from the front stoop and beaming up at the house in his soft, reserved way.</p><p>“Ben?” Eddie asked confused, still a little hungover and sleep-stupid.</p><p>“Hey Eddie,” Ben answered, that faint hint of shyness that Eddie always marveled at still present in his voice even though he was massive and model-tier gorgeous. “The house looks even better in person. I love the arched gable brackets.” Ben gestured up with a dorky little finger and Eddie nearly died of fondness.</p><p>“Richie wants to paint them green,” Eddie said vacantly, “So I can be ‘<em>Eds of Green Gables</em>’.” Then his face stretched into a grin so wide it hurt as he launched himself off the stoop and into Ben’s insanely toned arms.</p><p>Ben caught him, laughing at Eddie’s exuberance before steering him back towards the door. “I want the outside tour later but maybe you should be wearing pants when we do that,” Ben pointed out, nodding at Eddie who had only just realized he’d foregone his pajamas the night before and went to bed with Richie in nothing but his undershirt and briefs. That giant asshole <em>was</em> a bad influence. Ben had seen him in worse condition (namely leaking blood out his mouth like a faucet) but Eddie probably should spare the neighbors the sight of him in his underwear.</p><p>“Come in!” Eddie cheered, dragging Ben into the foyer, the last of his hangover fading to background noise from joy alone. “I thought you had a meeting?” That was the last Eddie heard when Richie’s endless needling for Bev to stow Ben away in her suitcase and bring him with had fallen on deaf, apologetic ears.</p><p>Ben seemed sheepish when he shrugged. “I figured, you know with the Bill and Audra thing, I can call in from here.” He was fiddling with the handle of a large rolling suitcase, fashionably stripped and marked with a big monogramed ‘<em>BR</em>’, the ‘<em>R</em>’ disappearing behind a thick sharpied ‘<em>M</em>’. Eddie thought instantly of his cast, that hateful fucking thing, but he smiled at Bev’s obvious ingenuity and spite.</p><p>“I mean, if that’s okay with you!” Ben said hurriedly after Eddie, still half asleep and digesting his shock, didn’t immediately respond. “I don’t mean to put you out, I can stay at a hotel if you don’t have the space…”</p><p>“Ben. If Richie heard you say that he’d chain you to the radiator.”</p><p>“You have a radiator? In southern California?”</p><p>“<em>No</em>, it’s a figure of speech but what the fuck, man? You’re welcome here anytime.” Eddie thought of the three envelopes in the kitchen catch-all drawer, a single silver key inside each one (and then he thought of the fourth key, the one Richie had stared at like it bit him before dropping it loose into the drawer). Eddie could hand Ben’s key over now to prove his point but considering how carefully Richie had written out ‘Ben’ and ‘Bev’ and ‘Mike’ in surprisingly neat handwriting, Eddie figured he’d let Richie do the honors.</p><p>Ben blushed, apparently appeased.</p><p>“Besides,” Eddie continued, “I figured you’d be rooming with Bev?” Ben’s cheeks darkened. “We’ve got a spare bed, if you’d rather,” Eddie said hastily thinking of the mattress on the floor of Richie’s room that would be unoccupied for the foreseeable future because no way was Richie sleeping alone anymore. But putting Ben in that monstrously wallpapered and mostly unpacked room felt like a punishment – maybe he and Richie would bunk up in there and let Ben have the master?</p><p>“Oh, I uh…” Ben mumbled and Eddie felt his cheek scar stretch as he smirked. Ben was blushing like a fucking schoolgirl. Richie needed to wake up <em>now</em> because someone had to make fun of Ben for being so fucking smitten but Eddie wasn’t the type to kick helpless puppies. “Yeah,” Ben admitted eventually, rubbing at the back of his neck. “We’ll probably share.”</p><p>When Richie didn’t miraculously appear in the doorway to heckle Ben, Eddie decided he could do some light prodding on his own.</p><p>“So… You and Bev…?”</p><p>Ben’s smile was painfully tender. “Me and Bev,” he repeated softly, and the way he said it sounded more devastatingly love-struck than when most people read their wedding vows. Certainly he beat out Eddie who had started with a cliché ‘<em>The Merriam Webster Dictionary defines ‘love’ as…</em>’ and ended with ‘<em>there, I’m done.</em>’ Not that <em>Eddie </em>had wanted to write his own vows – that was something Myra pushed for.</p><p>“Can I ask about it?” Eddie led Ben into the kitchen and promptly started fiddling with the expensive coffee maker Bill had bought them as a housewarming gift. The one that only Bill himself could get to work. Eddie would outsmart the damn thing some day and the pressure to make that day <em>this </em>day increased with Ben’s gentle eyes on his back.</p><p>“Sure,” Ben said while he tentatively made himself at home on one of the stools at the kitchen counter and smiled.</p><p>“Do you ever wonder if you’re rushing into things?”</p><p>And okay, so Eddie hadn’t <em>meant </em>to open with that – jesus fucking christ, why was he so fucking rude? – but that had definitely been the first thing on his mind once Richie pointed out that Ben and Bev were <em>together</em>. After roughly twenty-five years apart and two days chasing a murder clown together, they skipped right past the flirting and dating and went straight to<em> cohabitating</em>.</p><p>Call it the Risk Analyst in him but that whole set up seemed dicey.</p><p>Plus, it was a question Eddie had asked himself more than once the night before while sitting across a sticky bar table from Aaron and for some fucking reason, the idea of talking that out with Richie (who he would normally go to for advice on just about any social aspect of his life) made Eddie’s chest feel tight with fake-asthma.</p><p>Eddie’s problem was: no matter how he spun it, the date with Aaron had been mediocre. It felt less like a romantic outing than an extension of work and, even though Eddie didn’t hate his job anymore, he didn’t want to spend every waking moment thinking about it, either.</p><p>The best part of the night was when Eddie slipped away to the bathroom to wash his hands and he met his own eyes in the mirror, realizing with a strange surge of gravity that he was <em>actually</em> on a date. That he, Edward Kaspbrak, was physically capable of going out on a date with a man with only a minimal, probably normal amount of panic.</p><p>That would have been inconceivable to Eddie three months ago and his personal growth, despite the lack of chemistry on the date itself, was a massive accomplishment.</p><p>But admittedly the night was lackluster and the beer he drank was kind of gross (Eddie was picky about beer but didn’t want to be as off-puttingly choosey as he knew he could be so he mumbled, ‘<em>make it two</em>,’ after Aaron ordered to simplify that step) and he spent a good fraction of the night wishing he was at home with Richie, dressed down and drinking something he actually liked, chatting with Bev while Richie’s arm sat slung over his shoulder.</p><p>Eddie spent the drive home wondering if his date was such a flop because he’d rushed into things; if he’d hurried the process along faster than his actual recovery pace because he was trying to play catch up with his friends. Ben, he hoped, might help him find some clarity with that.</p><p>“You know,” Eddie continued, regulating his voice as best he could to not sound judgmental. “Do you think you’re moving too fast?”</p><p>“All the time,” Ben answered simply, and Eddie’s mouth literally dropped open. Ben laughed, the skin around his eyes crinkling. “I’m can see it too, Eddie. I know that Bev and I are… probably rushing into things.”</p><p>Eddie swallowed heavily, gave up on the coffee machine, and slid into the stool next to Ben who happily angled himself towards Eddie.</p><p>“Doesn’t that worry you?” Eddie asked, a note of desperation in his voice.</p><p>“Like crazy,” Ben answered with a rueful chuckle. “I –” he sighed and shrugged in a deeply self-deprecating way that made Eddie want to shake him silly. “If I mess things up with <em>Bev </em>I’ll never forgive myself. But I’d do literally anything to make it work so hopefully that counts for something.”</p><p>Eddie balked. “Dude.” Eddie grabbed Ben by his insanely firm shoulders and turned him until their knees were tangled up in the space between stools. “I’m going to say something and I need you to listen.” Ben’s kind, soulful eyes stared right back at him seriously. “<em>You are a catch</em>. Bev knows this. I know this. <em>Everyone </em>knows this.”</p><p>“I…” Ben struggled to smile, like he didn’t quite believe what Eddie was saying, and instead of acknowledging the compliment, he admitted, “I thought about her every day, Eddie. Or maybe not <em>her </em>exactly because I’d forgotten – but I knew there was someone out there who had a piece of me and more than I wanted that piece of me back, I wanted <em>her</em>.” Ben’s already forced smile wavered. “I’ve never been in a serious relationship before so I have no idea what I’m doing. And Bev has <em>so much </em>on her shoulders already and I’ve been trying to – to be what she needs… but Tom is a fucking <em>nightmare</em>, Eddie, and she’s hurting all the time. It’s fucking awful because there’s nothing I can do to help but <em>be there </em>but that never feels like enough –”</p><p>Eddie stopped Ben’s slightly frantic sounding rant to pull him into a hug. See, he was getting better at the touchy-feely stuff. Admittedly hugging Ben wasn’t as nice as hugging Richie even though he smelled good (like hot-dude cologne and under that, faintly, Bev’s perfume) and had similarly broad shoulders and a noticeable amount of muscle definition, but Eddie kinda liked Richie’s alternating soft and bony parts and the smell of his sweat more.</p><p>Belatedly, Eddie realized all the catching up with Ben he’d done over the last few months tended to be in joint calls or when Bev put them both on speaker phone and with a clench of regret, Eddie understood now that had been a disservice to their friendship. Ben had always been a little more shy having come to the group so late, even more of an outsider than homeschooled Mike who was undeniably Derry born and bred. Back in ’89, it had mostly been Bev who cracked the thick protective shell Ben kept around himself but maybe Eddie should work a little harder to re-learn the kind boy who’d given the half-wild gang of Losers their more sensitive edge.</p><p>And sure, Eddie was still <em>insanely </em>unequipped to give Ben any kind of advice but it was worth a fucking try.</p><p>“It’s enough, Ben. <em>You’re </em>enough.” Eddie stated, patting Ben on the back and pulling back. Ben was faintly teary-eyed. “I see the way she looks at you, man. And things suck right now a little bit,” Eddie admitted, thinking of what Bev had said the night before and Richie repeated later in the bedroom – how they were all trying to reshuffled their decks now they suddenly found themselves playing a different game. “But everything’s getting better. It <em>will </em>be better. And Bev is fucking stubborn. She wants you and she’s not likely to let go anytime soon. Losers stick together.”</p><p>Ben huffed out a gentle laugh, dashing distractedly at his cheekbone and shooting Eddie a fond look.</p><p>“I’ve really missed you guys,” he said with enough sincerity Eddie could have started crying if he weren’t still so fucking dehydrated. “I forgot what it was like to have people to talk to.”</p><p>“Bro, for real,” Eddie agreed emphatically, circling the counter to pull out two water bottles and a bowl of washed grapes, setting everything out between them, trying to channel what Richie would do if he were awake and playing host. “Sometimes I get this spastic kind of anxiety that screams at me ‘<em>you lost twenty fucking years!</em>’” Eddie shook his water bottle dramatically to properly express his point. “And it makes me feel fucking crazy. Like I have to <em>do </em>something to make up for all that time.”</p><p>Ben’s gaze was knowing. Understanding. Commiserating. The way only the Losers could truly ever be. “So what do you do?”</p><p>“Usually wrestle Richie into the couch,” Eddie shrugged and it startled a laugh out of Ben even though Eddie hadn’t been joking. “Or I open up the group chat and just, like, stare at it. Or I follow Bill around while he does errands just to remind myself I can.”</p><p>“I mean maybe it’s just an excuse but I think that’s kinda why Bev and I are so…” Ben frowned, searching for an explanation, miming something by spreading the fingers on both his hands and interlocking them.</p><p>“Co-dependent?” Eddie said before he’d thought it out and a brief flash of worry crossed Ben’s face before he covered it with a laugh.</p><p>“Yeah,” Ben sighed. “We tried to take it slow. Give each other some space. When we got back to New York she was going to stay with a friend while I went back to my place outside the city but when the time came to part we just… couldn’t.” He glanced at Eddie and then dropped his eyes to the counter, scratching awkwardly at the back of his neck. “And maybe I should have been firmer on the issue but it’s hard to spend even just a day away from her when I feel like I’ve wasted twenty-five years, you know?”</p><p>Eddie thought about how much he had <em>missed </em>Richie yesterday just because he hadn’t been getting the usual barrage of texts. He thought about the secret selfish thrill he’d felt when Bill had asked if he could move in permanently even though it was because Bill was getting a <em>divorce</em> and that was nothing to be excited about. He thought about the rush of endorphins he’d nearly collapsed under the second he opened the door to find Ben standing on the porch.</p><p>“I get it,” Eddie said, those three words not even close to encompassing how deeply he understood. “And so what if you and Bev are a little codependent? We all probably are but, like, what does that fucking matter? We fought an alien. A lot of us got <em>stabbed</em> one way or another.” He gestured with a flat palm at Ben’s stomach which had been sliced up <em>twice </em>in the same fucking summer. “On a cosmic scale, what does it matter if we’re, like, pack-bonded or whatever? How badly can that hurt us when the alternative is being actually fucking insane?”</p><p>Ben smiled, something slow and soft. “I feel like a therapist might disagree.”</p><p>“Fuck that, dude. My therapist can disagree when <em>he’s </em>fought a serial-killing space anomaly with six of his best friends using only the <em>power of belief</em>. Until then, we’re the fucking authority on that.”</p><p>A noise sounded deeper in the house, footsteps padding towards the kitchen, and then Richie was standing in the entrance way, rubbing his eyes underneath his glasses. “<em>Eds</em>,” he whined, and there was <em>no </em>fucking reason for Eddie to find that funny and maybe kind of cute but Richie’s hair was sticking up in three completely separate directions and he still wasn’t wearing any pants and knowing that he had just rolled out of Eddie’s bed made the whole thing so much nicer somehow. “I regret everything.”</p><p>“We’ve got company,” Eddie announced, right as Ben said, “I have it on good authority a breakfast sandwich might help with that,” and Eddie laughed when Richie jumped, hands dropping from his eyes to peer shocked at Ben. Then, a moment just long enough to be comical later, his face transformed into a wild grin as he opened his mouth and brayed out an obnoxious laugh.</p><p>“You fucking <em>sneak</em>!” Richie crowed, rushing over to wrap Ben up in a hug from behind before Ben had a chance to stand and return the favor. Trapped under Richie’s weight, Ben gripped Richie’s forearms banding across his chest and smiled as Richie rocked him back and forth in his excitement.</p><p>“R-Richie, how are you already so loud?!” Bill’s voice called from further in the house. “Is this what it’s gonna be like every day?”</p><p>“Ben’s here!” Richie shouted back and then there were a cascade of uneven footsteps and a slightly muffled crash before Bill swung around the corner into the kitchen, squinting against the light but grinning broadly.</p><p>Eddie hid his own smile behind his hand, elated and grateful that so many people he loved were here, in the kitchen he and Richie had painted with their own hands, shocked to find himself completely unconcerned with the fact that he was going to get absolutely no work done with so many distractions in the house.</p><p>He’d finish his work later. Right now he had twenty-seven years of reconnecting with his friends to make up.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. Chapter Nineteen</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: mentions of racism and cancer</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>All they were missing was Mike and that wasn’t for lack of trying.</p><p>Richie had called him no less than six times over the course of four hours (and he strong-armed each of the other Losers present into trying at least once – Bill let himself be talked into calling on the hour, every hour because <em>of course </em>he did) but Mike had a habit of falling off the grid or losing reception. Richie supposed it wasn’t like nature came fitted with cell towers at the top of every tall tree and he’d spent enough time on the road to know big stretches of farmland or winding rocky passes were the no-man’s land of data. Richie just hoped the guy had a few audio books or podcasts downloaded onto his phone before he’d fucked off into the middle of nowhere for the sake of his own sanity.</p><p>It was torture though because they were just <em>painfully </em>close to having the whole gang (<em>most </em>of the gang, they’d always be short Stan) back together in a situation that, for the first time in a few decades, was neither life-threatening nor revolved around a hospital. And the second he got Mike on the phone, he’d buy him a plane ticket to LA from the wherever the fuck he was - hell, he’d pay long-term parking rates for his truck at the airport and whatever exorbitant price it would be for Mike to check Silver onto the fucking plane – so long as the end result was a (mostly) complete reunion.</p><p>Thankfully, Richie wasn’t the only one practically giddy with proximity to the Losers. Eddie was hyper in the way he usually only got if Richie brewed their coffee extra strong and none of them seemingly wanted to tear themselves away from Ben longer than it took to get changed into real people clothes so they could give him a full tour of the house, inside and out.</p><p>The day disappeared in a blink. Someone ordered lunch and they ate it, talking over each other as they chewed. Bill whiled away most of an hour trying <em>again</em> to impress upon them all how much Audra was not at fault for their split (not that Richie needed to be convinced, he’d seen the break-up coming the moment Bill pressed his forehead to Mike’s in that fucking cavern). Eddie spent twenty minutes practically in Ben’s lap asking rigorous questions about the inner workings of Ben’s boat’s motor. And Richie debuted a less-lovesick version of the Eddie vs the Car Salesman bit he’d been accidentally refining in the shower, trying not to think too hard about how fucking adorable Eddie was when his very put upon frown threatened to twitch into a smile and his cheeks flushed.  </p><p>By the time day faded into twilight, the four men had convened around the outdoor fireplace but they hadn’t yet run out of things to talk about, Bill expounding on some ‘haunted’ castle he’d visited in Spain that Ben and Bev had seen from their boat and Eddie asking invasive questions about everyone’s personal finances.</p><p>“I’m pretty sure the whole neighborhood can hear your hyena laugh, Richie,” Bev called, her tired but brightly smiling face peering over the gate, and all four men spun, practically racing each other to get ahold of her. Richie won because his legs were longest (and Ben politely held back so the others could greet her first), grabbing her around the waist and spinning her around. She looked exhausted and travel rumpled but she let out a delighted peal of laughter as he set her down, kissing Richie wetly on the cheek before Eddie and Bill crowded in for hugs and kisses.</p><p>For someone who Richie texted daily and spoke to via video chat for hours only <em>yesterday</em>, Bev was still a sight for sore eyes. Apparently adult Bev hadn’t lost any of the magnetism she’d inadvertently wielded over a pack of love-struck mid-puberty boys like a leash – if anything her ‘<em>the party doesn’t start ‘til I arrive</em>’ je ne sais quoi had tripled and all the gathered Losers leaned towards her like a flower would the sun.</p><p>After Bill and Eddie had their fill of greeting Bev, her eyes slid to Ben where he stood a little ways back, rocking on his heels with his hands in his pockets, watching everyone (but most especially Bev) so fucking warmly Richie felt like he was invading a private moment – even more so when Beverly sidled into Ben’s space and his whole face tinged pink, her arms slipping around his waist and face pressing into his chest like his body was made to fit her.</p><p>Richie was glad Eddie and Bill were still faintly bickering, either indifferent or shockingly respectful of Ben and Bev’s privacy, but Richie needed a second to quietly digest.</p><p>Sure he’d seen Bev and Ben doing their couple-y thing in Derry – the hand touches and side hugs and The Looks. But that had been early-days stuff, the quiet fumblings of two people still figuring each other out (even if they had absolutely gone all the way to pound town, probably when they were still wet with sewer water and seriously, Richie did not blame them).</p><p>What he was looking at now was advanced-tier <em>relationship </em>stuff, and Richie was suddenly, viscerally reminded of his parents. Of unspoken conversations traded with a single glance. Of soft, comfortable, unacknowledged touches. Of that <em>content </em>look that had always made Richie yearn.</p><p>And Jesus, Mary, and Joseph’s technicolor dream coat, Richie <em>wanted</em> that. He wanted Eddie’s caring so damn much about him to mean something beyond Richie’s constant need for adult supervision and Eddie’s secretly very gentle heart.</p><p>Richie was immensely, eternally glad for all the extra company. If he were left alone with Eddie for longer than a few minutes, he was pretty sure he’d open his mouth and his feelings would come shooting out of him like a volcanic eruption. Because even though looking at Eddie and his stupid long eyelashes and his dimply smile fucking <em>hurt </em>after yesterday, Richie’s heart kept clinging to some wild, irrational hope and it was suffocating him from the inside out.</p><p>But even Richie wasn’t enough of a masochist to share this last huge secret of his in front of anyone – even the Losers, some of which already knew how dumb he was over Eddie and all of which knew how dumb he was in general. So it was kind of nice, after a solid month of spending every moment bracing himself for the potential to spill his guts all over Eddie, to have a moment of peace from that temptation.</p><p>Once there was a break in the noise of five people talking over each other, Richie ushered everyone into the kitchen and somehow he and Ben (with Eddie’s help/micro-management, the lovable fucking nut) whipped up dinner and got it on the table. Thanks to the still-too-fresh memory of everyone’s morning spent hungover (and Richie’s personal resolution to keep from totally back-sliding into his old bad habits) they abstained from drinking though they all split one of Bill’s joints out on the patio after the dishes were washed, their loud laughter echoing off the rocky cliffs lining the back of their yard</p><p>If Ben’s unexpected arrival was nearly enough to render Richie briefly catatonic with happiness, he really shouldn’t have been surprised that, when the doorbell rang after they’d settled on the couches in a sleepy circle, the sight of Mike standing on their doorstep exhausted but euphoric promptly burst him into giddy, laughing tears.</p><p>Mike, the wonderful bastard, took that perfectly in stride and pulled Richie into a hug, the deep rumble of his laughter pressed directly against Richie’s cheek. Distantly Richie heard the rest of the Losers pile into the foyer and Mike shrugged under Richie’s vice-tight embrace. “Loser family reunion?” he offered by way of greeting and then Richie and Mike were the molten core of a group hug that lasted just long enough to border on ridiculous but wasn’t nearly long enough to sooth that screaming emptiness that burned in Richie’s chest like the Olympic torch.</p><p>When they all separated, Richie dragged Mike into the living room and forced a plate of leftovers on him and everyone settled back in, that feeling of <em>rightness </em>that spread over them when they were all together in Derry (despite the clown shit) landing heavy over them again. For a few quiet moments they simply sat and took each other in, practically breathing in tandem, shooting dopey grins at each other and stifling giggles.</p><p>It was Bill who finally broke the spell, still staring dewy-eyed at Mike from where he sat on the sofa next to him, a little closer than necessary but Mike didn’t look like he minded. “I th-thought you were in New Mexico.”</p><p>“I was,” Mike shrugged, staring right back down at Bill with fucking hearts in his eyes. Oh man, shit was <em>going down </em>with them and <em>soon</em>. Forcing down the faint tinge of jealousy that brewed in his guts, Richie nudged Eddie with his elbow who much less discreetly elbowed him back way harder than necessary, the fucking goblin.</p><p>Oh, and had Richie specifically chosen the armchair – the only single-seater in the room - so as not to wind up sharing space with Eddie?</p><p>Yes.</p><p>Did the little bastard wind up cramming himself onto the armrest anyways, his toes tucked under Richie’s thigh, knees digging into Richie’s side?</p><p>Also yes.</p><p>At this point, Richie didn’t know why he was so surprised. Eddie seemingly existed just to torture him.</p><p>“But then you called,” Mike continued, oblivious to Richie’s inner turmoil, “and Ben told me he was coming out too and I figured, well, Thanksgiving’s just next week so…”</p><p>Richie, <em>elated</em>, turned a smug look up to where Eddie faintly loomed over him. “I <em>told </em>you the fifteen pound turkey was a good idea.”</p><p>“That’s still way too much turkey, Rich. I looked it up and the twelve-pounder would have been more than enough,” Eddie grumbled with an eye roll. When Richie only leaned back magnanimously to further sell the smug-charade, Eddie looped his arm around Richie’s neck and pulled Richie into the cradle of his legs, Richie hopelessly distracted from the incoming noogie by strong, wiry thighs sandwiching his chest.</p><p>Bev’s face twitched into something thoughtful across the room and Richie studiously avoided making eye-contact.</p><p>“What were you doing in New Mexico?” Ben asked kindly, either trying to cut short what Eddie was on the verge of turning into a wrestling match - Richie’s glasses already knocked askew as Eddie pulled him in for a headlock - or trying to distract Mike and Bill from eye-fucking each other in semi-public, Richie couldn’t be sure, but the abrupt return of a hundred memories of Ben skillfully keeping the peace melted Richie like he was a pat of butter on warm bread.</p><p>Mike had the good grace to tear his gaze away from Bill in embarrassment but Bill’s chin was still practically on the floor as he gaped at Mike. “Checking out Roswell –” Mike barely explained before Eddie interrupted.</p><p>“<em>Christ</em>, Mike, wasn’t <em>one </em>alien enough for a lifetime what the fuck?” and Richie wondered if his own ass-over-tea-kettle adoration for Eddie was as transparent as Bill’s was for Mike. Probably. More likely it was even worse. He tried to arrange his face into something that wasn’t impossible fondness even as Eddie manhandled his head to be smushed more thoroughly into his chest.</p><p>“Did you talk to the director of the research center?” Bill asked excited, practically vibrating in his seat. “You know I did a few interviews with her a couple years back when I was researching for <em>Out There </em>– I could put you in touch if you wanted.”</p><p>“I actually had a few contacts – friends I made online – so I swung by to get some private interviews…” and then they were off, dropping into the same kind of conversation they’d been having anytime they were left alone (or <em>not </em>alone, everyone else was still present in the room though they may as well all keel over dead for how likely it was either Bill or Mike would notice them again until they’d hit whatever cryptid-threshold was required to wind their conversation to a natural end or they were loudly interrupted).</p><p>Luckily, loud interruptions were Richie’s specialty.</p><p>“Oh! I have Thanksgiving presents for you guys!” Richie cheered, struggling out of Eddie’s hold to throw himself off the armchair, slide into the kitchen, and take a second to furiously remind himself to <em>stop overthinking Eddie’s constant need to touch</em>. Eddie was just <em>like that</em>. It didn’t <em>mean anything</em>.</p><p>When his minute was over and his heartrate was somewhere closer to normal and his dick was less piqued, he scooped up the envelopes with everyone’s house keys out of the junk drawer. He pointedly <em>didn’t </em>look at the last one that slid to bounce against the front of the drawer with the force of Richie’s excitement, the one that he’d gotten by accident, automatically requesting six copies instead of five like he was supposed to.</p><p>Determined not to linger on that thought, Richie dashed back to the living room watching Eddie’s furrowed eyebrows flatten out when he spotted the envelopes in Richie’s hand. One envelope for each new guest, each containing a key to the front door.</p><p>“For you,” he offered them gallantly to Bev, Ben, and Mike, all of them smiling when Richie’s intentions became obvious by the weight and shape alone.</p><p>“Wuh-what about me?” Bill teased, knowing full well what was in those envelopes because he’d watched, bemusedly, as Richie dropped a key in each and covered them in doodles one lazy afternoon while Bill was talking out the plot of his new book idea and Richie was avoiding his own writing.</p><p>“Greedy,” Richie hummed fondly, so happy to be here with everyone he grabbed Bill’s face between his hands and planted a loud smacking kiss directly on Bill’s way-too-handsome streak of grey hair, delighting when Bill laughed at his antics.</p><p>When he collapsed back into the armchair (because there was no way for him to pick a different seat without it being <em>weird</em>), Eddie immediately crowded against him looking huffy and uptight, arms banded across his chest in indignation. “So I’m the only one who doesn’t get a Thanksgiving present?” Eddie complained and Richie’s head swiveled towards him so fast he probably got whiplash.</p><p>Because Eddie was blatantly asking for a kiss. In front of all the other Losers. Like that was a totally normal thing to do.</p><p>And maybe it was - Richie couldn’t seem to <em>stop </em>dropping friendly kisses on his friends whenever he got the chance and when they seemed amenable to it - but <em>asking </em>for one was something else entirely. <em>Eddie </em>requesting a kiss was so out of the realm of what could be real Richie wondered, for half a second, if he wasn’t straight up hallucinating.</p><p>At that moment, Richie became intensely aware that Beverly was <em>watching </em>them again, face thrilled and maybe also a little calculative, gears turning behind the green of her eyes as her gaze shifted from Richie to Eddie like she was watching a tennis match. Ben and Bill had that pull to their lips like they were anticipating more of the usual Richie-and-Eddie Show while Mike was more invested in stealing little peeks at Bill – which Richie extra appreciated at the moment because he was pretty sure his cheeks were about to set on fire and the less people who saw that, the better.</p><p>Before Richie’s slightly too-obvious pause could get weird (weird-<em>er</em>), he repeated, “<em>So </em>greedy,” in something squeaky enough to pass as a Voice and grabbed Eddie by the jaw, pulling him in and pressing his lips to the line of Eddie’s cheek scar, reminding himself at the last minute to make the dismount loud and obnoxious enough to come across as a joke. Then, because he was putting on a show and had been given explicit permission to put his lips on Eddie and didn’t want to waste the opportunity, he smacked another handful of fast, loud kisses all over the side of Eddie’s face, holding him in place when he tried to pull away.</p><p>Everyone laughed at least, thank fucking god, even Eddie who immediately reached up and tried to rope Richie into another headlock. Richie let him, if only because he didn’t know what else to do with himself.</p><p>“I’ve been workshopping names for the house,” Richie continued hurriedly, trying to brush past the fact that Eddie had just <em>demanded a kiss</em>, “and so far our options are: The Loser Estate, Clubhouse Volume 2: Electric Boogaloo, Casa De Clowns (in which <em>we </em>are the aforementioned clowns) –”</p><p>“<em>Hard </em>no,” Eddie interrupted.</p><p>“- The Love Shack –”</p><p>“That sounds like we’re in some sort of polyamorous hexuple,” Mike said in a way that wasn’t <em>not </em>interest, a small smile on his face while he slid the house key onto the same ring as his car keys. Richie tucked Mike’s purposely open tone of voice away before he could break out in hysterical laughter.</p><p>“I veto that,” Bev called, raising her hand. “There’s already enough internet speculation about who, exactly, I’m fucking in lieu of my ex-husband.”</p><p>And that was true enough. After they engaged in a particularly heated twitter debate over <em>The Breakfast Club</em>, even Richie wound up on the list of potential men Beverly had traded her husband for despite the fact that he was now openly gay. Some even theorized his recent coming out was to cover their tracks for the sake of her divorce which was just offensive – probably more so to Bev but still. Richie could be gay without ulterior motives. He was <em>allowed</em>.</p><p>“Fair enough,” Richie admitted. He continued on undeterred, “There’s Maison d'Amnésie – that’s Amnesia House, for those of you who don’t speak French –”</p><p>“<em>Y-You </em>don’t speak French,” Bill insisted.</p><p>“- and, for simplicity’s sake, in honor of one hit wonder band Mädness: Our House.”</p><p>“‘<em>Our house</em>,’” Ben and Ben immediately started to sing, “‘<em>In the middle of our street</em>’!” The song was a familiar anthem played often in the underground Clubhouse, both because it seemed relevant at the time and because it was one of the few tapes Stan had donated to the collection and he bitched about everyone else’s taste in music.</p><p>“‘<em>Our house! Was our castle and our keep!</em>’” Mike joined in and then broke off to loudly yawn.</p><p>“You said you came in from Roswell?” Ben stopped his singing to ask. “How long were you driving?”</p><p>“Oh, about fifteen hours,” Mike admitted around another yawn.</p><p>Bill rounded on him. “Je-esus, Mike, when did you get on the r-road?”</p><p>Mike’s hand flew up to rub at the back of his neck. “Ah, about the time we hung up last night.”</p><p>Richie wished - going off Bill’s absolutely bludgeoned expression - that they had waited to have this conversation until it was just the two of them alone in a room, preferably one with a bed and a lot of lube. Eddie, completely without compunction, turned and gave Richie the least subtle Look imaginable, a little fucking ‘<em>do you see this shit?</em>’, as if Richie hadn’t been the one constantly telling <em>him </em>Mike and Bill were destined to hook up.</p><p>“<em>Oh</em>,” Bill said breathlessly. Mike, it seemed, had totally lost the ability to make eye-contact with anyone in the room.</p><p>“So I’m – uh – pretty beat. You guys got somewhere I could crash? That couch looks pretty cozy…”</p><p>“Shut the fuck up, Mike. Come with me,” Eddie insisted, standing and grabbing onto Mike’s hand, heaving him to his feet.</p><p>“Goodnight, guys,” Mike hummed, trailing after Eddie’s pulling.</p><p>“I think we’re gonna pass out, too,” Ben said, nudging Bev who’s eyes had been drifting closed while her head leaned against his shoulder. And that made sense – she’d partied with Richie all day yesterday and then flown across the country and actually gone to her office and worked like some kind of fucking Valkyrie. Unlike Richie who had slept in ‘til noon and lazed around the house all day with his friends. Richie would be dead and in the ground by now if he was her.</p><p>“Night,” Richie and Bill called, Richie’s heart aching a bit to watch the super homey way Ben led Bev to the bedroom with a hand at the small of her back, the way she clung to a fist full of Ben’s t-shirt, the small kiss he pressed to the crown of her head. The fucking <em>togetherness </em>of going to bed at the same time.</p><p>Bill stood too, dazedly padding off to his own room, wide eyes glancing once, longingly, to where Mike had disappeared into the hallway. Richie watched him go with mounting humor, hiding his smile behind his hand even though Bill didn’t so much as wish him goodnight while he shuffled towards his door.</p><p>By the time Eddie found him again, Richie had collected Mike’s plate and drinking glass, dropping them in the sink to be dealt with in the morning, relishing a little pathetically the soft noises of a full house. Somewhere a faucet was running, Richie could hear the water rushing through the pipes. Floorboards shifted in places besides underneath his own feet. Everyone was home.</p><p>When Richie turned, Eddie was leaning against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed and watching him. For a second, Richie was sure he was gonna get a talking to about leaving dirty dishes in the sink overnight but Eddie smiled at him, something soft and sleepy and deeply pleased. “We’re in your room, tonight. I gave Mike the master.”</p><p>“Sure,” Richie hummed, following behind Eddie as he led the way into Richie’s room, fucking terrified Eddie would turn his huge brown eyes on him and everything would just come hemorrhaging out of him at once.</p><p>Richie pinned what little self-control he had in place and shut the door. Luckily, the sting of hearing about Eddie’s date (which <em>thank fucking shit </em>wasn’t the sexy affair Eddie had hoped for) was still fresh enough to clog up his throat so long as Richie kept reliving the moment he’d read Eddie’s text over and over again in his brain. Was it healthy to purposely hurt himself to keep his shit in check? Probably not. But what the fuck else was he supposed to do?</p><p>Totally oblivious to Richie’s pounding heart, Eddie immediately started scavenging the various piles of clothes strewn across Richie’s floor or tucked into the stacks of boxes he’d yet unpacked. In fact Eddie seemed to know his way around better than Richie did. “I’m borrowing a shirt to sleep in,” Eddie explained but Richie hadn’t questioned it.</p><p>The silence was overwhelming in the cozy-warm light of Richie’s bedside lamp and every moment his mouth wasn’t saying something stupid was a moment that risked him saying something <em>very </em>stupid so he spluttered, “Hey, you think Bill and Mike will bang before Thanksgiving?”, unbuckling his belt and determinedly turning away from Eddie when the beautiful asshole pulled his t-shirt over his head in one painfully sexy gesture Richie was going to think about for eons. Jesus, Richie was trying to <em>stop </em>obsessing over Eddie but how the fuck was he supposed to do that when everything he did made Richie actually insane? “Or is that fucked up to theorize about?”</p><p>“If they didn’t want us to talk about it, they shouldn’t fucking flirt in front of us,” Eddie insisted somewhere behind Richie.</p><p>Richie stole a peek over his shoulder, a little startled to find Eddie’s eyes on him as he shimmied out of his pants.</p><p>“Fifty bucks says they bang before Thanksgiving –” he cut off on a squeak which hopefully was mostly unnoticed because Eddie was disappearing inside one of Richie’s shirts and the one he’d settled on was merch from one of Richie’s old tours, something Richie never wore but kept as a momento. It blared ‘<em>RICHIE TOZIER IS A DICK</em>’ in offensively large letters because even his ghost writer was a hack and one of his best jokes in the mid 00’s was a prolonged ‘Richard’ joke.</p><p>Still, for a second Richie was pretty sure his heart stopped at the sight of his own name stretched across Eddie’s chest.</p><p>“You’re on,” Eddie snapped back, his head reappearing out the hole. “Before Thanksgiving? No fucking way, that’s – what – five days?” He paused, considering. “But before Christmas for sure.” While Richie was still struggling to form any coherent thoughts, his brain still stalled over Eddie wearing his name and looking fucking <em>smug </em>about it – like Richie’s name wasn’t intrinsically linked to a whole embarrassing slew of other bullshit - Eddie segued, “Are you ever gonna unpack your shit?”</p><p>“Like, emotionally?” Richie asked, startled.</p><p>“No!” Eddie laughed, his face twisting into something confused even as he smiled his devastating, dimply smile. “Your <em>literal </em>shit,” he explained with a gesture around the room. “Not that you shouldn’t unpack the other stuff but – I mean you are, aren’t you? That’s why you go to therapy.”</p><p>“I mean I’m fucking trying,” Richie confirmed, upset at himself for turning the conversation into something he really didn’t want. “And nah, I like the rat-person aesthetic,” Richie answered, scrabbling to get things back to neutral ground, watching Eddie crawl into bed wearing a pair of his sweatpants with his heart in his throat. “Plus I guess I need to buy a dresser or something.” Richie’s old apartment had a closet into which he’d shoved all his clothes but he had picked this room entirely based on proximity to Eddie so it lacked the proper space for storage.</p><p>“When you do we should put it in my room,” Eddie said, no-nonsense as always while he aggravatedly fluffed the pillows at the head of Richie’s bed – both of them – giving the one obviously meant for Richie an inviting little pat before burying his face in his own. “And you should unpack your shit in there.”</p><p>Richie’s mouth dropped open with an audible pop.</p><p>“<em>What</em>?” Richie whispered, positive he was losing his mind.</p><p>“You’re gonna be sleeping and waking up in there, why go to a different room to get changed?”</p><p>“Right, sure,” Richie said faintly, yanking his glasses off his face because he <em>could not deal </em>with <em>any </em>of that at the moment. He was supposed to be sequestering his feelings for Eddie, shrinking them into a size more manageable in his head, not <em>moving into Eddie’s bedroom</em>. “Makes sense.”</p><p>“It <em>does</em>, asshole,” Eddie insisted even though Richie’s tone hadn’t been argumentative – mostly it had been reedy with shock. “It makes a lot of sense. You can have half the closet too, but I call a couple drawers on the dresser. We should pick one out this week.”</p><p>“Sure, yeah, whatever you want, Eddie,” Richie said faintly, wondering <em>what the fuck </em>he was supposed to do.</p><p>Richie had no idea when Eddie dropped off, his head too messy to properly hyper-fixate on things like Eddie’s breathing pattern or the soft noises of his sleepy mumbling but Richie lied awake in the dark for hours.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The next morning, tormented into wakefulness for once not by Deadlight dreams but by proximity to Eddie who he had <em>no </em>fucking clue how to handle, Richie rolled out of bed early and quietly let himself out into the yard with a throw blanket wrapped around him like a cape, settling into the hammock to collect his thoughts in peace. The chill of the November morning was abrupt but Richie appreciated it – his skin was on fire and the cold tamed the half-chub he hadn’t been able to convince to calm down.</p><p>Eddie was giving him so many damn mixed signals Richie didn’t know what to fucking do with himself. ‘<em>Move into my room, Richie</em>,’ ‘<em>Kiss me, Richie</em>,’ ‘<em>Tell me how to </em>fuck other guys<em>, Richie</em>.’</p><p>Maybe talking to Eddie about his feelings <em>was </em>the best option. At least then Eddie might reign in some of his oblivious come-ons. Would stilted silences and jerked-away-from touches be worse than what Richie was living with now? Worse than waking up with Eddie nuzzling into his shoulder, his hand a hot brand on Richie’s bare stomach where he’d snuck it up under his t-shirt while they both slept? Worse than the suggestion of something hard pressed to Richie’s hip as Eddie shifted in a long unmistakable grind?</p><p>Fuck, Richie really couldn’t fucking tell. He had officially lost his mind.</p><p>He was so distracted by the sense memory of Eddie plastered to his side with fucking <em>morning wood </em>that he didn’t notice he wasn’t alone until the hammock rocked shockingly underneath him and long legs knocked against his ribcage as an unexpected guest settled in next to him facing the opposite direction.</p><p>Richie knew who it was before he opened his eyes.</p><p>“Top ‘o the morning to ya, Mikey,” Richie greeted in an Irish accent that sounded more like the Lucky Charms mascot than an actually Irish person, squinting his eyes open to take in Mike’s broad grin in the early morning sunshine. God, how did all Richie’s friends get so fucking good looking?</p><p>“Never woulda guessed you’d be the first one up,” Mike said with a smile, wiggling a little until the hammock rocked. As kids, that had always been Mike at sleepovers, the earliest riser with his farm hours ingrained so deep he woke with the sun. Richie remembered with a fond, misty filter all the mornings he’d crack open his eyes to find Mike quietly entertaining himself with Richie’s Atari, the volume on the TV dialed down to zero, Stan warm and snoring on one side of Richie and Eddie curled tight in a ball against him on the other.</p><p>Richie shrugged. “I was dreaming, I guess. Kept me up,” he answered dully. Cause it had been the vivid daydream of turning into Eddie’s familiar sleep-warmth and waking him up with kisses that had jolted Richie fully awake, his hand already sliding up Eddie’s arm.</p><p>“You get those too, huh?” And judging from Mike’s cryptic half-smile, Richie wasn’t sure whether he was talking about Derry dreams or unrequited love dreams or both. “At least they’re easier to deal with when we’re all together.”</p><p>The gaping hole in Richie’s stomach yawned open like a toothsome maw.</p><p>“God, how’d you do it Mikey,” Richie breathed, the thought punched right out of him. But it was early and he was already riddled with guilt from nearly tackling Eddie into the sheets and the question always popped up anytime he got a good look at Mike who somehow managed to have smile lines below his eyes and crinkling his cheeks despite fucking <em>everything</em>.</p><p>“Do what, bud?”</p><p>“Survive in that place all alone?”</p><p>And a memory slammed back into Richie’s head with a sound like thunder.</p><p>Mike and him leaned against either side of the doorframe of the storage barn on the edge of the Hanlon property. Both their arms crossed. Rain so thick the rest of the world smeared like Richie needed a new prescription on his glasses. The weather was just cold enough their humid breath left them in whirls of fog but the rain hadn’t yet turned to snow.</p><p>For one brief second the world lit up in a flash of lightning, the trees surrounding the farm bare of leaves, the trimmed stalks of straw leaving the stretch of field in front of them bristly and harsh. Maine was turning barren and hideous with the first hints of winter.</p><p>“You gotta get out of here, man,” Mike said, a low note of urgency to his voice. At some point he’d surpassed Richie in height and the dude was a fucking heart-throb, sweaty Henley stretched over thick muscled arms, his skin steaming in the late autumn cold from hauling hay bales.</p><p>But all Richie could think about was Eddie and the Cure t-shirt he’d been drowning in when he’d climbed aboard the bus to New York a few months before. Richie couldn’t even bring himself to be mad that Eddie had stolen his favorite shirt because maybe – just maybe – Eddie would think of him when he wore it.</p><p>More realistically Eddie had already thrown it away or displaced it. Would he remember the gawky kid with glasses he’d taken it from? Or had whatever tether of friendship they’d had in Derry snapped the moment Eddie left town and Richie was left behind, a relic of childhood Eddie had grown out of.</p><p>Because Eddie had never called with the number to his dorm like he’d promised. Never mailed Richie the stupidest postcard he could find which Richie had made him pledge to do. Not that Richie had expected to hear from him. When the Losers left, they left for good. But some stupid part of Richie had held out hope.</p><p>Eddie hadn’t even visited for Thanksgiving – the Kaspbrak house had gone dark and cold in the middle of October and now there was a ‘for sale’ sign up on the lawn which shouldn’t feel so fucking <em>ominous </em>but it did.</p><p>“I can’t just bail on you, Mikey,” Richie insisted, a broken record.</p><p>“You wouldn’t be <em>bailing </em>on me,” Mike said, then going off Richie’s Look continued, “You’re miserable, Richie.”</p><p>“What and you aren’t?”</p><p>“Not really,” Mike hummed and the problem with Mike was he never really <em>lied</em> but he never said all of what he meant, either. “I’ve got the farm and my Grandad to look after. Classes over in Bangor. My part-time job at the library.”</p><p>“Yeah, Mikey, you’re really living the life.” None of that sounded like a great time to Richie who spent most of his time high while he worked the projector at the Aladdin and daydreamed about what Eddie might be doing in New York. God Richie hoped he was happy there.</p><p>But Mike smirked and shrugged. “It’s not bad.” He shifted and Richie realized Mike was bracing for a lecture. “I’ve got roots here, Richie. A home and a plan for the future. There’s no reason for you to stay if you don’t have to.”</p><p>“Hey, I’ve got <em>roots</em>,” Richie insisted and Mike blinked at him without judgement but somehow that was even worse. “Well, it’s not like I’m fucking homeless, Mikey.”</p><p>And he wasn’t. He still had his basement filled with memories of all the people who had left. His parents were still around and only occasionally drilled him about his plans for the future but mostly they just looked at him in a way that didn’t exactly say ‘<em>get the fuck out of here</em>,’ but wasn’t terribly far from ‘<em>why are you still here</em>?’ either. Maggie and Went weren’t gonna kick him out anytime soon but he knew he was cramping their style by sticking around. They’d expected an empty nest by now and Richie was, as always, ruining their plans.</p><p>“Richie, you know my Grandad’s sick,” Mike sighed and Richie felt like such a <em>child </em>in comparison to Mike. Like a kid too fucking terrified of moving away and letting go. “The doctors think he’s got a couple years in him still, Gramps says he could keep going another decade,” Mikey smiled quietly to himself, almost proudly, like the fact his last living relative was running down the clock wasn’t fucking devastating, “and I’ve got no plans to leave him.”</p><p>Mike and his grandpa had a complicated relationship, one Richie only ever saw peripherally. Mr. Hanlon didn’t like Richie much (most parents (and apparently grandparents as well) didn’t), not the way he liked Eddie or Bill back before they’d moved away. He thought Richie was trouble which added up because Richie never kept his fucking mouth shut and, as a family that put up with way more bullshit than Richie could ever imagine and did so with stony silence, Richie probably seemed like a fool.</p><p>But Mike loved his grandpa even if Mr. Hanlon was hard on him and pushed him to be tougher than a soft kid like Mike was meant to be. And Richie didn’t know exactly what kind of heart-to-heart they had when Mr. Hanlon was first diagnosed with cancer, but the old man didn’t seem so bothered by Mike’s tenderness as he used to be, that pride in Mike’s eyes mirrored in Mr. Hanlon’s face.</p><p>“I’m sticking around, Rich,” Mike said flatly, lifting his shoulder and letting it fall. “Don’t see a point in both of us staying.”</p><p>Richie gave him another Look – one that called to mind all the other conversations they’d had, mostly when they were alone in the world and the sun was up and it felt like nothing evil could touch them. Petulantly Richie insisted, “Don’t see why <em>either </em>of us have to stay.”</p><p>“We made a promise,” Mike said, the same thing he always said when Richie tried to convince him to climb in his car and run away with him.</p><p>Because It wasn’t dead and if they stayed in town long enough, they’d still be around when the clock ran out and It came back for seconds.</p><p>Neither he nor Mike really believed they’d <em>won</em>, not with the way Derry was still so fucking strange, not with how no one who left ever called or wrote or visited, not with that underlying sense of dread that kept Richie up at night like the static hum of a TV, white noise unnoticeable except for the sting of your eardrums and the silence that rang once it was gone.</p><p>And sure, Bill’s little blood oath was a good try. ‘<em>We’ll come back</em>.’ Yeah, sure, cool. But how the <em>fuck </em>would they do that if everyone who left <em>forgot</em>? Magic was all well and good but someone had to do the fucking legwork.</p><p>Not that Richie wanted to be the one to do it. He always hated responsibility. He was the back-up guy, the one the real hero could lean on for comedic relief when things got too bleak and who could, when absolutely necessary, swing a baseball bat with relative accuracy. That was his role in the group. The group that had dwindled down to two.</p><p>So even though he didn’t want to have a fucking hand in it, even though he’d give <em>anything </em>to break Bill’s stupid promise and get the fuck out and drag Mike with him and never look back, he knew Mike was hell-bent on keeping it and it wasn’t fair to make him do that alone.</p><p>God, he wished he had a cigarette if only so he had something to do with his hands. But the barn was dusty and filled with dry hay and Eddie had screeched at him enough times about ‘<em>an inferno waiting to happen</em>’ that Richie knew better than to light up. Instead, he shoved his fingers deep in his jacket pockets to stop their restless fiddling.</p><p>“You trying to get rid of me?” Richie screwed on a grin.</p><p>Mike looked at him so long and so fucking sad Richie was sure he was being x-rayed, his most vulnerable parts open for perusal. Unable to meet Mike’s gaze, he turned his eyes to the scene outside the barn, the almost-winter landscape, the heavy rain inching towards sleet as the sun sank and the temperature dropped.</p><p>“This place’ll kill you, Richie,” Mike finally said, a crack of lightning punctuating his words before the low rumble of thunder shook the sky.</p><p>“Could say the same to you, Mikey,” Richie answered with a side-eye. At least Richie could keep what made him different a secret. Mike wore his on his skin.</p><p>“With Bowers gone it’s not so bad,” Mike shrugged but Richie knew that wasn’t true. Sure, the Hanlons were well liked around town. Respected, even. Their farm was family run, paid fair, and employed enough of the locals that, as far as labor went, it was one of the more coveted jobs. But half the girls in town had been warned off bringing Mike home out of some pathetic fear of reenacting <em>Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner</em> even though Richie knew for a fucking fact that whoever landed Mike’s heart was going to be the luckiest SOB on this side of the Mississippi.</p><p>After another lengthy pause, the kind of quiet Richie only recently had gotten used to since Eddie left, Mike asked, “You really want to spend the next twenty-two years here?”</p><p><em>No</em>, Richie absolutely did not. Back when he’d seen Eddie off, he’d told himself he’d only stay a few weeks. Wait to see if he’d call (even though Richie already knew he wouldn’t) and if anyone asked (Mike, Mike was the only one left to ask) Richie said he was saving up a bit more money for the move out to Chicago. It was a decent cover considering he’d snuck Eddie the entirety of his saved cash cause fuck knew Eddie needed it more than he did.</p><p>Then Thanksgiving crept closer and he thought ‘<em>maybe Eddie will visit, may as well wait and see</em>.’ But he didn’t and with the house for sale, he was probably never coming back.</p><p>So now Richie was stuck. He hadn’t given much thought to his future except to nebulously assume he’d never make it there. Whether that was the clown-trauma talking or something else, he wasn’t sure. But while all his classmates had been filling out college applications and picking out future careers, Richie had been drifting by assuming he’d be dead before adulthood.</p><p>Now he wasn’t and he didn’t know what to fucking do with himself.</p><p>Well, no, that wasn’t entirely true. If he could leave Derry, he’d go to Chicago, check out Second City, try to get involved in improv. He was quick with words - the one advantage to being Trashmouth Tozier - and he knew how to tell a story to get the most laughs. And shit he wanted people to laugh.</p><p>Mike was watching him, probably reading his mind. “You go on, Richie. Get out of here,” Mike told him, sincere and warm and too fucking good. “I’ll keep the lights on.”</p><p>Richie blinked and he was back in the present, the hammock still swinging the two of them lazily back and forth in the November morning chill.</p><p>“Did your grandad hold out another decade like he said?” Richie asked and there was a brief flash of grief before Mike’s face split into that same strangely proud look he’d worn on a rainy afternoon almost twenty-five years to the day.</p><p>“He made it another twelve years,” Mike said warmly. “The chemo pushed it into recession but eventually…”</p><p>Eventually everyone dies. Eventually Mike was all alone. Twelve years with his grandpa meant ten years on his own.</p><p>“It wasn’t so bad, Richie,” Mike said, one big hand landing on Richie’s knee and patting it reassuringly. “I had my research and people were friendly.”</p><p>“‘<em>Friendly</em>’ but not <em>friends</em>,” Richie said, noting the pointed semantics. Fucking Mike.</p><p>Mike smiled sheepishly. “I had <em>friends</em>. Just, you know. Not you guys.” Richie grabbed a hold of Mike’s knee in return. God, what would it have been like to <em>know </em>there were people out there who fit against him like puzzle pieces but that they’d all forgotten? Richie couldn’t have lived like that, he’d have lost his fucking mind. “And I followed all your careers so it kind of felt like I still knew you.”</p><p>Richie blinked. “You stalked us.”</p><p>Mike no longer looked sheepish. If anything, his smirk was fucking smug. “Social media is a helluva thing. And half of you wound up famous for some fucking reason so you made it easy.”</p><p>Richie tilted his head back and cackled.</p><p>“How you liking the world outside of Derry?” Richie asked, desperate for some proof Mike was happy. Instead he got another shrug.</p><p>“The road’s pretty quiet.” The way he said it sounded neutral. Like a fact. But Richie could read the loneliness between the lines.</p><p>“You know you can stay here as long as you like,” Richie said automatically. “There’s three empty rooms and one of ‘ems got your name on it, <em>any one of them could be yours</em>!” he finished in a gameshow host Voice while he waggled his shoulders and Mike, bless him, huffed out a chuckle.</p><p>“I like the traveling,” Mike admitted. “Meeting people, seeing new places. I drove through the desert to get here and I couldn’t believe it. Looks just like it does in the movies.”</p><p>“You want some company on the road?” Richie asked, mind turning over trying to figure out how he could possibly convince Steve to let him out of the state. Richie was on unofficial house arrest after his near-impalement and, considering the shit Steve was pulling to keep him working even though he didn’t want to do any live performances at the moment, Richie didn’t have much room to complain.</p><p>“You’ve got your own stuff going on,” Mike answered easily with a little head tilt towards the house. “There’s people who need you here.” Richie gave Mike a <em>very </em>skeptical look. “Eddie,” Mike clarified, completely flatly, obviously exasperated. “Eddie needs you here.”</p><p>“Eddie doesn’t <em>need </em>me…”</p><p>“Maybe not need,” Mike conceded with a shrug. “But he wants you here and that’s just as valid.”</p><p>Richie’s heart ached.</p><p>“You okay on money?”</p><p>Mike gave him a Look, the softest version of offended Richie had ever seen, and said, “Why? You looking for a charity?”</p><p>“I dunno. You know one?” Richie answered pointedly.</p><p>“I’m fine, Richie.”</p><p>“Just say the word, man. You said it yourself, we all did pretty well for ourselves. You woulda too if you hadn’t been stuck –”</p><p>“I’m <em>fine</em>. Really. Sold the farm to property developers after Gramps passed. Now it’s a decent little subdivision and I’ve got a comfortable sum to retire on.”</p><p>Richie blinked. “<em>Shit</em>.”</p><p>“Yeah.” Mike smiled.</p><p>“A <em>subdivision</em>?” Mike shrugged. “That’s… kinda sad. Real <em>Death of the American Farm</em> vibes.”</p><p>“I’m not too heartbroken over it,” Mike admitted. “Felt a little screwy, being a vegetarian and owning a livestock farm. Gramps knew it was inevitable; the property was worth more than the farm, but he didn’t want to see it happen so I waited until he was gone. Honestly, it was the best decision I ever made.”</p><p>“Better than stumbling out of the Kenduskeag and following a bunch of weirdos on a clown-hunt?”</p><p>Mike smiled serenely. “You’re right. Second best.” Then Mike’s expression shifted, turning inward and sad. “I swung through Atlanta on my drive down to Florida,” he admitted quietly and it was like the world hit mute for second. The soft susurration of the wind cut out, the distant echoing sound of traffic hushing to non-existence. Even the occasional trill of a birdcall fell silent. “I met Patty.”</p><p>“Patty,” Richie repeated robotically.</p><p>“Patricia Uris,” Mike supplied as if Richie had thought he could be talking about anyone else. “She goes by Patty.”</p><p>Stan and Patty. Patty and Stan. The Urises. That sounded nice in Richie’s head. Right. Another piece slotting into the puzzle.</p><p>God, was Richie about to hurl? Would Eddie be less mad if he barfed on the paved patio or into the pool? Probably the patio was a better bet.</p><p>“What’s she like?” someone asked in Richie’s voice though it sounded like he was being strangled. Mike’s face tugged into a smile that didn’t reach his bleak half-focused gaze.</p><p>“She’s…” Mike’s eyes darted up to Richie. “She’s exactly who you’d picture Stan marrying.”</p><p>“So she loves puzzles and obsesses over birds?”</p><p>Mike laughed, the sound a little strained but genuine. “You’re describing Stan.”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“You really think Stan would have wanted to marry <em>himself</em>?”</p><p>The immediate retort ‘<em>I don’t know anything about Stan</em>’ hit a dead halt on the backside of Richie’s teeth. He <em>had </em>known Stan and… that counted for something. That kept proving to be true over and over again with all the other Losers even with twenty-something years apart.</p><p>“She uh –” Mike’s smile was sad, “Actually she kind of reminded me of you.”</p><p>That shut Richie up faster than a hand clamped over his mouth.</p><p>“She’s funny, you know?” Mike continued softly, seemingly aware what he was saying was wreaking havoc on Richie’s sanity but plowing on despite that. “Surprisingly upfront. You’d like her.”</p><p>Richie had no fucking doubt he would. Anyone who found Stan and decided ‘<em>yup, this one’s for me</em>’ had to be pretty fucking great.</p><p>“She’s not mad at any of us,” Mike continued and <em>fuck </em>Richie wanted to change the subject but also he couldn’t get his usually overflowing mouth to work. “She’s not mad at <em>me</em> even though she could be.”</p><p>“<em>Mike</em>,” Richie breathed. “Don’t do that to yourself.”</p><p>“I – If I hadn’t called…”</p><p>“You’d be dead, Mike. Pennywise would have come for you and that would have been it, end of story.”</p><p>“I knew you guys wouldn’t take it well but I never imagined…”</p><p>“You couldn’t have known.”</p><p>“You don’t think – when we made the promise when we were kids, you don’t think Stan was already thinking –”</p><p>“<em>Mikey</em>,” and if it sounded like Richie was begging it was because he was.</p><p>“He never told us,” Mike insisted, tears welling up in his eyes. “If he’d <em>told</em> us I never would have called.”</p><p>“You did what you had to do,” Richie told him with as much authority he could scramble together. “And Stan – Stan did what he felt like he had to do.” Mike looked stricken. “He made a choice. One that I <em>hate </em>but he made the call and I –” Richie swallowed down a sob. “He wouldn’t want you to blame yourself.”</p><p>Richie could say <em>that </em>with absolute surety. Stan had never once let one of the other’s take the fall for his own decisions – not when they were nine and he let Bill cheat of his test and they got caught, not when Eddie backed out into a cement wall while Stan was teaching him how to drive and Ben’s mom’s car got dented, and not when Richie tried to put out the fire Stan had started on the stove with his mother’s favorite throw blanket and the thing went up like a rag soaked in vodka.</p><p>“Stan loved us,” Richie said, swiping at the moisture on his cheeks with the heel of his palm. “So don’t do that to yourself.”</p><p>Mike scrubbed at his eyes and sighed heavily. “You should go out there, sometime. Patty wants to meet everybody.”</p><p>That sounded like the last thing Richie would <em>ever </em>do – what the fuck could he possibly say to Stan’s <em>widow </em>that wasn’t desperate pleading gibberish – but he tried to make his face look considering.</p><p>“She asked about you by name,” Mike said, and Richie’s heart literally, actually throbbed.</p><p>“<em>Why me</em>?” Richie asked, his voice insanely high and anxious.</p><p>“She said Stan watched your stand-up.” Richie felt like a slap to the face would have been a kinder thing by far. “When I told her you were his best friend growing up, she had a lot of questions.”</p><p>“What, like, ‘<em>how come Stan never mentioned he fucking </em>knew<em> that jackass on TV</em>?’” And okay, his voice was still way too high.</p><p>Mike hummed. “Yeah, she had some of those.”</p><p>“Did you tell her about the clown?” Richie asked in a hissing whisper, like Pennywise might jump out of a bush if he spoke to loud.</p><p>“<em>No way</em>,” Mike rushed to say. “She was already kind enough to let me into her home after – after everything. No way was I gonna lay that on her, she’d call the police.”</p><p>“Yeah, good call,” Richie said breathily.</p><p>“Mostly she had a lot of questions about what Stan was like as a kid,” Mike continued. “I told her about the time he stole his dad’s keys before he got his license and drove us all up to Bangor to cheer Bev up.”</p><p>“Holy fuck, I remember that,” Richie breathed, chuckling as it slotted back into place in his memories. “He rolled up to the Barrens in the Uris’ fucking van like it was no big deal.”</p><p>But it was a huge deal. Bev had been on the verge of angry-tears since she’d rushed back from the last hearing that finally put her dad in jail and at the sight of Stan pulling up next to their bikes, a smirk on his perfect goddamn face, she’d burst into hysterical laughter which turned into sobbing which turned into laughter again when Stan said very seriously, ‘<em>get in the van, you’ve earned some fucking ice cream</em>’.</p><p>Fuck, Richie missed Stan so bad it hurt.</p><p>“You should try calling Patty sometime,” Mike said, dragging Richie back to the present. “It’d be good for you.”</p><p>“<em>Good</em> for me –”</p><p>“<em>Hey Rich</em>?” Eddie’s voice rang out from the direction of the house and Richie jumped and then thanked a handful of gods he made up on the spot for the perfectly timed distraction. Eddie, sleep tousled and still in Richie’s borrowed clothes, wrapped his arms around himself and padded towards the hammock. “Have you figured out this fucking coffee machine? I think Bill bought it with the express purpose of torturing us – oh! Hey Mike!” Eddie’s customary morning glower brightened noticeably. “You’re up early. Want some coffee? You’ll have to brew it yourself cause Bill’s machine <em>hates </em>me but the feeling’s fucking mutual.”</p><p>“I’ll see what I can do.” Mike smiled warmly, then his eyes traveled down to Eddie’s chest still proudly proclaiming ‘<em>RICHIE TOZIER IS A DICK</em>’ and his eyes lit up with a spark. “Eddie… What are you wearing?”</p><p>And here, with Mike’s too knowing look darting back to Richie – the one that screamed ‘<em>I bet you’re </em>loving <em>this</em>’ – Richie’s face set on fire.</p><p>“Don’t bring it up!” Richie insisted, trying not to think too hard about the smug little tilt to Eddie’s lips as he crossed his arms, only emphasizing <em>Richie’s fucking name</em> stretched across his pecs. “That’s how he wins!”</p><p>“I’m not the one hoarding my own merch, you fucking narcissist,” Eddie snarked, turning to lead the way back to the house while Richie and Mike rolled out of the hammock (Mike with much more grace than Richie). The back view of Eddie’s shirt, which Richie had entirely forgotten about, had a list of tour dates and a little cartoon drawing of Richie’s leering face. Getting mocked by <em>himself </em>felt particularly poignant at the moment.</p><p>“Think about it, Richie,” Mike said in a quiet aside, right when Richie had finally let himself <em>stop</em> thinking about Stan and Patty and a lifetime of loneliness. Richie grunted at the ground non-commitally.</p><p>What fucking good would talking do either of them?</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Richie was <em>being weird</em> and it was driving Eddie insane.</p><p>It wasn’t obvious. Richie still cooked breakfast while he sang off-key to whoever was awake and in the kitchen. He still cracked horrible one liners at the end of every serious discussion. And he still laughed loud and bright at unexpected things no one else found funny in a way so frustratingly contagious the whole group had no choice but to join in.</p><p>But he was awake and out of bed before Eddie even though, on the few occasions he woke up first back when they slept together in his old apartment, he’d busy himself on his phone so he could poke and harass Eddie as he roused from sleep. His hands were back in his pockets again too and – Eddie <em>swore </em>he wasn’t crazy – but he was pretty sure Richie was purposely picking seats as far from Eddie as he physically could in every possible situation even though there was always space <em>right there next to Eddie</em> because that childhood instinct to save Richie a seat was apparently hardwired into Eddie’s brain.</p><p>He’d done it when the whole group went out for Saturday breakfast, pulling Bev into the booth before Eddie could slide in next to him. Then again when they’d hung around the outdoor fireplace and he’d forgone his usual favorite seat in the hammock. And then <em>again </em>when they’d sat down at the kitchen table to play games and he’d dithered around opening drawers and cupboards for no discernable reason and waiting until Eddie settled in to take the chair at the literal opposite corner of the table.</p><p>Annoyingly, Eddie was the only one who noticed.</p><p>“What are you t-talking about?” Bill asked, utterly nonplussed, watching Mike’s hands expertly shuffle the deck of cards they’d been playing with. Richie and Bev were out in the backyard sharing a cigarette even though cigarettes were fucking <em>terrible </em>for you and Richie had sworn he’d quit in his early twenties when he didn’t have the money to keep up the habit.</p><p>Eddie shoulda known Bev would be a bad influence. She was the one who introduced Richie to smoking in the ninth grade, after all. And yeah, okay, so the smell of cigarettes <em>still </em>spiked some kind of serotonin release in Eddie’s brain thanks to the two of them but they weren’t fourteen anymore. They should take better care of themselves.</p><p>“You think Richie’s being weird?” Ben asked, much more invested in the conversation because he was <em>the best</em>. Ben stole a glance out the back sliding door to where Richie and Bev sat horizontally in the hammock, side by side, only their dangling legs visible as they rocked back and forth, the faint sound of Bev cackling drifting through the glass every once in a while. “Weird how?”</p><p>“<em>I don’t know</em>,” Eddie hissed and Mike raised an eyebrow but continued shuffling the deck. He’d won most the last couple rounds of Rummy and for some reason Eddie and Bill were the only ones bothered by that. Growing more convinced Mike was cheating, Eddie snatched the cards out of his hands to shuffle them himself. Mike smiled at him calmly in faux innocence and Eddie narrowed his eyes before continuing, “He’s just… he’s being <em>weird</em>!”</p><p>Now that he had gotten this far into the conversation, Eddie wasn’t sure ‘<em>he won’t sit next to me</em>’ was a valid argument outside of middle school.</p><p>“Richie’s always weird,” Mike said calmly with a shrug but Eddie didn’t miss the way his eyes were bright when they flickered across Eddie’s face. “Isn’t that why we like him?”</p><p>“Muh-maybe he needs some space,” Bill said distractedly, running his thumb along the table grain and stealing glances at Mike. Eddie barely resisted the urge to scoff.</p><p>Giving Richie <em>space</em> had never once been a solution in that idiot’s entire existence. Space made Richie reclusive and stand-offish. The more time he spent away, the moodier he got and the harder it was to successfully pull him out of his funk. Richie needed company to recharge, someone to talk to, someone to entertain or harass or vent at.</p><p>That was a huge part of why Eddie had stopped obeying his mother’s groundings after Stan moved away from Derry. Richie had once confided that he mostly only bothered going to school because he and Eddie would hang out afterwards and, when Eddie was grounded and forced to return home right after the last bell, Richie cut a lot more classes. But Mr. Hanlon chased him off Mike’s farm if he was supposed to be in school so Richie spent a lot of that time alone doing god-knows-what. And when Mike and Eddie would stir him up from wherever he spent his empty days, he’d be strange and sad and quiet.</p><p>Eddie glanced at Mike who, judging from his faint little head shake, agreed whole-heartedly that Richie didn’t need <em>space</em>. Richie needed someone to fucking tackle him into the ground and tickle him until he said what the fuck was bothering him. At least, that was how Eddie used to shake him out of his depressive moods when they were in high school.</p><p>But was that still a viable strategy now they were adults? Was Richie even still ticklish? Eddie pondered over the logistics while he slotted the split deck together (yeah, he wasn’t as fucking fancy as Mike with his one-handed shuffle shit which he was <em>clearly </em>showing off for Bill, but Mike’s skill with cards only furthered Eddie’s evidence that he had to be cheating somehow).</p><p>“I still don’t get it,” Ben said quietly, huge eyes glancing between Eddie and Mike and their unspoken conversation. “What’s Richie doing that’s so weird?”</p><p>The conversation was cut short when Richie and Bev came strolling up the patio laughing. Eddie stood abruptly to refill his glass of water, handing off the cards to Ben (the only one of the Losers he could trust to never cheat) as the back door slid open.</p><p>“You didn’t have to wait for us,” Bev cooed, leaning down to press a kiss to Ben’s forehead.</p><p>“We didn’t,” Bill grumbled. “Mike won another round.”</p><p>“<em>Shit </em>Mike, you’re gonna give Eddie an embolism,” Richie said, eyes sweeping the room to search him out and visibly lighting up when he found Eddie standing next to the sink.</p><p>And Eddie wasn’t imagining it – he fucking <em>wasn’t </em>– because Richie glanced over the collection of empty seats: the one Eddie had just left squeezed between Mike and Ben, the chair Richie had vacated earlier, and the unoccupied seat next to it. Then his eyes darted up guiltily to Eddie who was watching him expectantly, doing his best to say, ‘<em>yeah, what the fuck are you gonna do, asshole, I know your game</em>,’ with his eyebrows alone.</p><p>Richie swallowed, pasted on a very fake looking grin, and wedged himself into Eddie’s vacated seat.</p><p>Eddie fucking <em>knew </em>it.</p><p>“That’s <em>my</em> spot, asshole,” Eddie grit out. He’d been planning on relocating to the empty seat next to Richie but now he abandoned his cup in the kitchen to loop his arm around Richie’s neck in a chokehold, a real surge of irritation and <em>worry</em> driving him to dig his chin into the top of Richie’s head who squawked in indignation.</p><p>Was Richie <em>avoiding </em>him?</p><p>Richie squirmed in his hold and Eddie tightened his grip, accidentally knocking into Mike as Richie tried to push the chair back to dislodge his hold. “Jesus, <em>uncle</em>! <em>Uncle</em>!” Richie cried and Eddie loosened his hold, worried for a second he might have <em>actually </em>choked the idiot because Richie’s face was red.</p><p>“Well, if we’re playing musical chairs…” said Mike who stood and went to the other side of the table, pointedly taking Richie’s previous seat next to Bill who flushed a healthy pink and coughed to clear his throat.</p><p>Eddie folded himself into Mike’s vacated chair and shot Richie a smug grin. Behind his smudged glasses, Eddie wasn’t entirely sure <em>what </em>kind of expression Richie was making but he laughed quietly (and slightly hysterically) to himself before Bev snorted. “Wow, it’s like being in high school.”</p><p>“You sure you want to bring up high school?” Richie said, voice cracking at first but dipping into confidence as he continued and a wily smile split his face. “Show of hands, who here remembers Bev’s goth phase?” Richie asked rhetorically and all hope of Eddie getting anyone else to weigh in on the Richie-being-weird thing was lost to the resultant argument.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>The weekend was over in a blink and Eddie was grateful Bev and Ben, at least, had to buckle down and work like he did or else he’d be tempted to call out sick the three days before the holiday. Ben was officially the first to christen the newly painted office with actual work (Eddie hadn’t made the move from the kitchen, he liked being privy to Richie’s daily migration around the house) and Bev borrowed Eddie’s SUV to drive to and from her office coming back at the end of the day looking harried but energized.</p><p>Richie, Mike, and Bill spent those days showing Mike all the worst LA tourist traps which, seemingly, Mike was genuinely delighted to visit, judging from his wide smiles and excited retellings during shared dinners.</p><p>And it was nice coming home at the end of work to a full house; opening the door to the immediate rush of conversation and greetings and hugs. Ben would ask polite questions about his day and Mike would make him taste test whatever was cooking on the stove and Bev would pour him a big glass of wine.</p><p>So it wasn’t a <em>huge </em>deal that all the extra company made Richie a little harder to get a hold of. He was in his element playing host, entertaining, keeping everyone busy with games and outings and conversation. And it wasn’t like Eddie <em>missed </em>him – he was right fucking there, laughing too loud in the kitchen and stacking wood all janky in the outdoor fireplace and trying to throw popcorn in Bev’s mouth from opposite ends of the living room while they half-watched bad movies.</p><p>Eddie kept an eye out for him, still worried about the day Richie had spent all day drinking despite his obvious attempts to cut back since Derry, but Richie was shockingly well-behaved, drinking in moderation and only at night with dinner and everybody else. It was still more alcohol than he normally consumed in a week but Eddie was just as guilty of that. Bev was an impressively adept enabler.</p><p>The first chance Eddie really caught Richie alone was on Tuesday as Eddie got ready for work. <em>Once again</em>, Richie had gotten out of bed before him but by the time Eddie stumbled out of the bedroom, Richie was the only one awake in the kitchen, the smell of coffee brewing now an intrinsically Richie-smell that led Eddie through the hall while he was half asleep.</p><p>Eddie had fifteen seconds to digest Richie all rumple haired and sleep soft, humming quietly to himself as he sliced up an apple before he was noticed.</p><p>Richie jolted in excessive surprise when Eddie laid a gentle hand on the small of his back and pointedly avoiding meeting Eddie’s eyes before he whispered, “You owe me fifty bucks.” Then he herded Eddie towards the front hallway where Bill’s bedroom door stood open, Mike and Bill both passed out in bed together.</p><p>“Those fuckers,” Eddie whispered indignantly. “If they’re gonna bunk together here, why the fuck are we giving Mike the master?”</p><p>Richie’s eyebrows raised over his glasses but he didn’t take his eyes off the sleeping pair. “That is <em>not the point</em>,” he insisted, pulling his phone out to snap a few pictures of the sleeping duo before easing the door shut quietly and scurrying back to the kitchen, Eddie close on his heels. “I <em>told you</em> they’d be sleeping together before Thanksgiving.”</p><p>“You said they’d be ‘<em>banging</em>’ before Thanksgiving. Their clothes are still on and the door is open, so they didn’t <em>bang</em>,” Eddie bit back, following Richie back to the kitchen. Then Eddie amended, “They probably fell asleep talking – the two of them go at it all day.” Richie chuckled quietly and poured a stream of coffee into Eddie’s travel mug along with a liberal amount of non-dairy creamer – just how Eddie liked it – sliding it down the counter towards Eddie while still religiously avoiding eye-contact.</p><p>Something in Eddie’s chest tightened. The only stolen moments they’d had over the last few days were the few minutes before they fell asleep and, considering they stayed up later and went to bed drained from a full day of socializing, they’d been dropping off with record speed, Richie sometimes already asleep by the time Eddie wrapped up his evening ablutions. So this; alone in the slightly grey morning sunshine of their shared kitchen; was finally a chance for Eddie to say something, to ask Richie what was going on.</p><p>Eddie opened his mouth and Richie, the fucking asshole, tensed because he must have known it was coming because he was <em>absolutely </em>being weird and they both knew it, but before Eddie could shape the demand, ‘<em>are you avoiding me</em>?’ into something less hurt sounding, Ben stumbled into the kitchen and smiled.</p><p>“Morning!” he greeted cheerily and if it was anyone but Ben, Eddie might have had a conniption, especially when Richie exhaled, obviously relieved.</p><p>“Morning Benny-boy!” Richie cheered, darting one last anxious glance at Eddie before scurrying back to brandish his apple slices at Ben.</p><p>But his behavior answered the question sufficiently. So Richie <em>was </em>avoiding him. But why?</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Eddie, it's cause you got mush for brains.</p><p>Thanks for reading! Sorry for the prolonged torture! The smooching is coming up, I promise!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0020"><h2>20. Chapter Twenty</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: mentions of eating disorders and previous drug problems, alcohol consumption and dependencies, the blanket warning that is Sonia Kaspbrak</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Thanksgiving week flew by. Richie didn’t envy Eddie, Bev, and Ben who, at times, had to pull their shit together enough to get some work done because Richie’s brain felt like a browser with too many tabs open, all of them playing videos (and at least two them were porn).</p>
<p>Admittedly, Eddie, Bev, and Ben made up the faction of the house <em>not </em>in the throes of some sort of romantic apocalypse, lucky fucking them. Having Mike on Team Horny was one thing – that man knew how to <em>flirt</em>, jesus fuck, and he was laying it on unapologetically thick – but Bill, who only periodically seemed to realize he was being flirted with, was troubling company, especially since the few times Bill seemed to notice what was going on around him, he’d slip into behavior so awkward even Richie had to look away.</p>
<p>That wasn’t to say Bev and Ben didn’t have their own bizarre relationship intricacies. As a pair they were interesting – sometimes shy and distant, at other times shamelessly all over each other. Liquor loosened them up – loosened <em>Bev </em>up enough she’d seat herself on Ben’s lap or kiss him grossly deep at the kitchen table at the end of a meal, unperturbed by Eddie’s loud gagging. Ben, graciously, accepted whatever Bev had to offer whether it was the obviously meticulously thought out way Bev slid into the seat next to him at the counter in the morning to drink coffee shoulder to shoulder or her tipsy demands to be carried piggy-back to the room they shared every night.</p>
<p>When left to herself, Bev had a caginess to her – a harshness Richie remembered well from after the summer of ’89. She was the one doling out drinks most nights, not that Richie was the kind of person to ever turn them down. She flinched at loud noises and then laughed at herself in a way that made <em>everyone else </em>flinch but she hadn’t lost all her gentleness. Her fingers were still kind and soothing when she slid them through Ben’s hair and her hugs were good and firm when she caught Richie around the middle unexpectedly at random times of the day.</p>
<p>She was a tough fucker but what she was going through wasn’t easy – Richie overheard a few calls with her lawyers and the Bev who paced the backyard nearly shouting into her phone was terrifying to behold. The Loser Divorce Club met pretty much once a day after dinner to discuss their various woes (which Bev underplayed, Bill overplayed, and Eddie mostly got angry about). Richie didn’t envy them except that the three were bonding in a way Richie was slightly jealous of because he was a strange lonely man with a lot of warped dependency issues and it was faintly alienating to know Bev and Bill could commiserate with Eddie in a way he’d never be able to.</p>
<p>But that was a Richie problem so he kept that tucked away somewhere no one had to see.</p>
<p>And Ben – well, he hadn’t <em>gained weight</em>, not in any truly noticeable way at least. He was still a fucking Adonis, even more so now he didn’t look so fucking <em>dehydrated</em>. Because Richie had spent enough time bumping elbows with Hugh Jackman/Ryan Reynolds types at craft lunch tables between takes to know people didn’t look like Ben did when they met up in Derry without being fucking miserable. Without spending most their waking time cultivating that physique. Without limiting <em>everything </em>that they put in their bodies and never looking to long at a baguette or a plate of pasta lest they absorb some carbs by osmosis.</p>
<p>And sure, that was all well and good when all you had going on was running an intensely lucrative architecture firm and every available moment of free time was spent counting calories and fucking doing crunches or whatever the fuck people did to make their stomachs look like Ben’s, but that kind of lifestyle wasn’t entirely sustainable when there was something (or someone) better to do with your time.</p>
<p>Clearly sailing the fucking Mediterranean and watching crappy reality television with Bev had softened Ben in all the right ways. Richie hoped that wouldn’t be an issue – honestly seeing Ben so changed at the Jade <em>had </em>worried him; Richie lived in LA, he knew an eating disorder when he saw one - but Ben didn’t even have half the list of dietary restrictions Eddie still occasionally pulled out so Richie tucked those worries away, not erased but shoved into the background for now.</p>
<p>Overall, despite the way Bev and Ben obviously already slotted together like two interlocking pieces, they were still working stuff out both as a couple and individually. For some selfish reason, Richie found that profoundly comforting. He wasn’t the only one doing a shit ton of work on themselves with mixed results. No one was finding this <em>easy</em>. But they weren’t alone. They were all trying together and that made a world of fucking difference. Everyone talked about their therapists like that was a normal thing to do because <em>it was</em>, apparently –welcome to the twenty-first century, Richie Tozier - so it wasn’t that strange to trade session-discovered gems of wisdom like they were handing out breath mints.</p>
<p>Maybe it was a little fucked up but hey, whatever got the job done.</p>
<p>Part of what was doing the job for Richie, at the moment, was avoiding Eddie at all costs. He could <em>feel </em>the words sitting on the tip of his tongue, too willing to tumble off and fuck everything up. Most days, he was sure if Eddie <em>looked </em>at him a certain way Richie would have no choice but to blurt out ‘<em>I’m so fucking in love with you please be with me forever</em>’ like an absolute moron.</p>
<p>So he kept his space, so much easier with all the company, even with Eddie tailing him like a sexy noir era PI, shooting him skeptical glares and trying to corner him at odd times. Thank fucking god they currently had a house full of distractions or Richie would have been <em>screwed</em>.</p>
<p>The Losers, as a whole, drank too much, ate too much, and stayed up late most nights talking and laughing and making a lot of noise. Richie supposed that was what a lot of people probably had around the holidays – a family to cook breakfast with, a legion of volunteers to help carry the groceries in from the car, groggy ‘<em>good morning</em>’s over coffee and slightly tipsy ‘<em>good night</em>’s scattered throughout the evening as people slipped off to bed.</p>
<p>Richie hadn’t spent a holiday with people he <em>cared </em>about since he was strong-armed into and then <em>forever banned </em>from a Hanukkah/Christmas celebration at his oldest sister’s house in the early oughts when he’d decided, very stupidly, to try to kick cocaine cold turkey only to wind up going through withdrawal so bad he had to be carted off to the hospital in an ambulance. Richie had thought Caroline at least might have been able to brew up some sympathy for him in the moment - she had a problem with diet pills (re: speed) in her early twenties so he wasn’t the only one with fucking problems – but his three sisters had united against him in shame and, understandably, anger that they had to explain what the fuck was wrong with Uncle Richie to their collective gaggle of children.</p>
<p>He had a tentatively okay relationship with his sisters now (after at least five years of stony silence which Richie couldn’t pretend he didn’t deserve) but the mutual agreement was to keep their interactions with Richie to one or two phone calls a year which worked for Richie because everyone was still deeply ashamed of him, most notably himself, but that was easier not to think about when he never saw them face to face.</p>
<p>Last he heard from any of them was when Becca texted him an obligatory congratulations when he came out but he suspected Tiffany and Caroline were holding out to see if it stuck or if he was in the throes of another mental breakdown. Richie couldn’t find it in himself to be mad about that.</p>
<p>The upside to being a lonely bastard was that now he had a chance to write over all the memories of twenty years’ worth of uneventful Thanksgivings. And the suddenly bustling house reminded Richie of the open door policy in his basement-bedroom back in Derry in all the best ways. Reminded him of turning over in the morning to find Bev on the couch in front of the TV or coming home from school to discover Mike stomach down on Richie’s bed reading his comic books.</p>
<p>It was nice, slipping into the familiarity of good friends and happy company. And the Losers had always been better than family – he certainly liked them more and knew them better – but exactly because of that, he probably shouldn’t have been surprised to find himself cornered by Bev at her earliest convenience.</p>
<p>He’d dodged the bullet most the week because she’d been busy with work or distracted by everyone else so it wasn’t until Thanksgiving afternoon she caught up with him in the hall and shoved him bodily into the laundry room, dramatically scanning the area before she eased the door closed. The turkey was in the oven and they were both holding mostly empty glasses of the mixed drink Mike had whipped up insisting it was a specialty in the little town in Florida he’d hung around the first week after Derry.</p>
<p>The damn thing packed a fucking punch. Richie saw Mike pouring honest to god everclear into the pitcher but hadn’t drawn attention to it because Mike had winked at him in a conspiratorial way and Richie wasn’t a fucking snitch. Plus he was a little excited to see notorious light-weight Bill make an ass out of himself and he was pretty sure if Mike and Bill hooked up <em>on </em>Thanksgiving, he’d still manage to convince Eddie he won that bet and Eddie’s determination to win everything by any means necessary (re: cheating) always brought out a usually-unacknowledged competiveness in himself.</p>
<p>“You gotta be quick, Ringwald, I’ve got a bird to baste,” Richie said, quietly debating whether he should tell Bev to cool it on the drinks. She’d had two so far which wouldn’t normally have any noticeable effect on her – her tolerance was only rivaled by Richie’s - but Richie was half-convinced Mike was trying to set that polyamorous hexuple thing in motion using only the power of strong drinks and his charming smile.</p>
<p>(Having spent half a week watching the Losers relearn how to interact, Richie couldn’t confidently say that plan wouldn’t work.)</p>
<p>“Fuck the bird,” Bev said, a little belligerently and then her face transformed into a wide, dangerous smile. “No, scratch that. Fuck<em> Eddie</em>,” she stage-whispered, leaning in close to Richie’s face because, yup, the everclear was in full effect.</p>
<p>“The only thing getting stuffed around here is the turkey, Beverly.” Richie reconsidered. “Actually, not even the turkey is getting stuffed cause there’s this whole thing about food temperatures and even cooking and if you even <em>think </em>the word salmonella in Eddie’s presence he breaks out in hives –”</p>
<p>“Can you shut up about dinner for one fucking second?” Bev insisted, downing the last of her drink, ice clinking in the bottom of her glass. As if the sound summoned him, the door cracked open and Mike’s head popped into the doorway.</p>
<p>“Oh, secret meeting?” he asked and Beverly yanked him into the laundry room too, glancing melodramatically up and down the hall again (Eddie, Bill, and Ben could clearly be heard from the kitchen so the theatrics were unnecessary) before closing the door.</p>
<p>Mike was holding a pitcher of his orgy juice and Bev zeroed in on it, wiggling her glass at him until he refilled it. Then Mike leaned against the dryer and sipped straight from the pitcher himself, an anticipatory ‘<em>let’s hear the hot goss</em>’ look on his face.</p>
<p>“What are we whispering about in the laundry room today?” Mike wondered with a wry smirk.</p>
<p>“Eddie,” Bev stated like it should be obvious at the same time Richie repeated, “‘<em>Today</em>?’”</p>
<p>“Ahh, <em>Eddie</em>,” Mike hummed.</p>
<p>“Wait, have you guys been using the laundry room to gossip <em>without me</em>?!” Richie demanded.</p>
<p>Bev ignored his question entirely. “You should <em>fuck Eddie</em>,” she insisted again and Mike barely held back a spit-take. “You’re <em>sharing a bed</em>, Richie. Now’s the time to shoot your shot.”</p>
<p>“Shoot my <em>load</em>,” Richie automatically corrected and then shook himself. “And why aren’t you giving this little pep talk to Mike, huh?” Richie snapped, jerking his chin in Mike’s direction. “<em>He’s</em> been not-so-secretly sharing a bed with Bill for <em>days!</em>”</p>
<p>Bev’s quick glance at Mike was considering and faintly impressed. Mike, completely unfazed, shrugged.</p>
<p>“He’s got it handled,” Bev insisted and Richie scoffed, 80% out of jealousy. Mike <em>was </em>awfully fucking calm about whatever the fuck was going on between him and Bill. Considering Richie was constantly hovering on the edge of a mental breakdown, that seemed absurdly unfair. “You and Eddie on the other hand are a disaster.”</p>
<p>“Okay, you sure you want to be casting stones Ms. Marsh, you glass-house-living mother fucker?” Bev only gave him a slightly tipsy glare. “And come on, <em>Bill </em>is currently the reigning disaster in this house. At least I spread out my sexuality crisis over the last thirty fucking years instead of waiting ‘til <em>now </em>to get started.”</p>
<p>Bev and Mike shared reluctantly agreeing looks.</p>
<p>“I’m with Bev on this,” Mike said and Richie clutched the hand not holding his diminishing drink to his heart. “Not the disaster part,” Mike clarified with a laugh, topping off Richie’s drink. “About Eddie. I think he likes you.”</p>
<p>“Of course Eddie <em>likes </em>me, I’m his best fucking friend.” At Bev’s little raised eyebrow, he explained, “I know that cause he tells me, like, all the time and it is <em>low-key fucking me up</em>.”</p>
<p>“Richie, he keeps trying to sit in your lap!” Bev insisted and unfortunately/wonderfully, that was true. Mission Do Not Sit Next to Eddie had unexpectedly backfired in awful/beautiful ways and anytime Richie didn’t <em>choose </em>the seat next to Eddie, Eddie would find a way to invade his space like a dog who had no idea it was too big to fit on someone’s lap. Richie could explode with how much he fucking loved it.</p>
<p>“And the man straight up asked for a kiss the first night we were in town,” Mike added, taking another long sip from his pitcher.</p>
<p>“<em>I know right</em>?!” Richie whispered hysterically. <em>Finally </em>someone else was around to see what Richie was putting up with, all the mixed signals, all the confusing physical contact. “<em>But what does that </em>mean?!”</p>
<p>“It means Eddie wants a kiss,” Mike answered solemnly and Richie did his best to say ‘<em>thanks a fucking lot</em>’ with just his eyebrows. Mike laughed.</p>
<p>“<em>Go for it</em>!” Bev cheered. “Wait until you’re snuggled up all nice in bed, bat your eyelashes a bit, and be like,” she dropped her voice into something deep and nasally – a truly terrible impression of Richie that made his heart fucking turn over with how much he loved Bev, “‘<em>Hey Eds</em>, <em>wanna rub dicks ‘til we start a fire</em>?’”</p>
<p>“I think you have a fundamental misunderstanding about what happens when two men have sex,” Mike chuckled at the same time Richie said, “Yeah, eyelash batting hasn’t ever really worked for me, Bev.”</p>
<p>“Well you’ve gotta try <em>something</em>!” she continued, her voice hitching louder before she clapped a hand over her mouth and dropped her tone back to a whisper. “Isn’t it <em>killing </em>you sleeping in the same bed? The first night I had Ben to myself I just… fucking… <em>pounced</em>…” Her eyes went a little glassy and Richie and Mike exchanged glances before she shook herself out of it, taking another long sip of her drink. “God, I bet you wake up and stare at Eddie like a fucking creep.”</p>
<p>“<em>I do not</em>,” Richie hissed even though, yeah, he might have spent a little bit of time that morning looking at Eddie before he slipped out of bed – but that was because Eddie’s sleep mumbling was a little more coherent than usual and Richie wanted to know who he was so furiously calling ‘<em>a big stupid giraffe</em>’ because he suspected that remark was targeted towards himself and kind of desperately wanted some context.</p>
<p>Beverly, unfortunately, could read him like a book. “<em>Oh my god you do</em>,” Bev said with a huge grin. “Are you rubbing one out every morning from the brush of your ankles under the sheets?”</p>
<p>“Last I remember you didn’t want any dick updates.” Bev pulled an exaggerated pout while one of Mike’s eyebrows climbed his forehead.</p>
<p>“Wait,” Mike intoned. “I thought Eddie took his bed back since I’ve been sleeping with Bill.” If Richie weren’t trying super hard to convince himself it was the drink flushing his cheeks, he’d have mirrored Bev’s little piqued look of interest. <em>Sleeping with Bill </em>indeed.</p>
<p>“But I saw Richie come out of Eddie’s room this morning,” Bev explained and Richie didn’t need reminding. She’d waggled her eyebrows at him over morning coffee because of it. Now, two curious pairs of eyes swiveled to him.</p>
<p>“<em>Sooooo</em>,” Richie dithered, “Eddie and I have kinda sorta been sleeping together <em>most</em> nights since Derry.”</p>
<p>Bev and Mike blinked at him in judgmental unison.</p>
<p>“That boy wants to <em>fuck</em>,” Mike said flatly at the same time Bev whisper-screeched, “<em>Jump his bones already, Tozier</em>!”</p>
<p>“It’s not <em>like </em>that,” Richie said, covering his face with his free hand so he wouldn’t have to put up with the faces they were making. “It’s <em>platonic</em>.”</p>
<p>“Platonic my ass,” Mike concluded while Bev vehemently nodded along.</p>
<p>“And with Eddie being bi, you’ve legitimately got a chance!” Bev added in an excited whisper.</p>
<p>“Yeah, sure, but if Eddie’s type is good-looking guys named <em>Aaron</em> who wear suits and know shit about, like, finances or whatever, I kinda <em>don’t</em>.”</p>
<p>Bev rolled her eyes and slurped loudly from her glass.</p>
<p>“Richie,” Mike said seriously. “I don’t know how much you remember but that boy has <em>never </em>been able to leave you alone.”</p>
<p>“That’s just Eddie!” Richie insisted. “He has no concept of personal space.”</p>
<p>“He has no concept of <em>your </em>personal space,” Bev corrected flatly. “Honestly I thought all the I’m-so-obsessed-with-Eddie calls were one-sided but now that I’m <em>seeing </em>it…” she shared another look with Mike before landing serious eyes on Richie. “I think you’ve got a real chance here, Richie.”</p>
<p>“<em>Don’t say that</em>,” Richie pleaded. God, if he got his hopes up only for them to be dashed, he’d never survive.</p>
<p>“When we were young I didn’t think much of it,” Mike admitted. “The way the two of you interacted. The way Eddie hung all over you. Some kids are like that.” Richie nodded emphatically. “But there is a grown ass man out there who cannot keep his hands off you,” Mike finished sincerely, pointing in the direction of the kitchen. “A man who, I’m assuming, invited you to sleep in his bed, a man who <em>moved across the country </em>to live with you, who reshaped his whole life to be near you. Richie, do you see what I’m trying to explain?”</p>
<p>Richie took a long sip from his glass, the ice clacking against his teeth. Jesus, whatever Mike had mixed in there besides fucking <em>everclear</em>, Richie couldn’t even taste the booze. Everyone was gonna get <em>trashed</em> which was looking more and more appealing by the minute.</p>
<p>After a long pause, Richie, heart in his fucking throat, dared to ask, “You swear you aren’t fucking with me?” with about a decade’s worth of vulnerability shoved into those few words.</p>
<p>“Talk to each other like adults so you can bone each other like bunnies,” Bev concluded and Mike nodded solemnly at her side.</p>
<p>Richie was saved having to give some sort of answer to that by the door swinging open and smacking Bev on the shoulder. She squawked and splashed a bit of her drink onto the tile floor as Eddie’s head appeared through the crack in the door.</p>
<p>“Shit, sorry Bev!” Then his eyes scanned the room and promptly narrowed when they zeroed in on Richie. “Wait, what the fuck are you doing in here?” Eddie demanded, eyeing them suspiciously. Richie was pretty sure his own face was settled into something mostly neutral but Bev and Mike were pathetically shifty looking.</p>
<p>“I was showing them the new washer and dryer,” Richie lied immediately. “They conserve energy <em>and </em>water,” Richie said magnanimously.</p>
<p>Mike, bless his tipsy ass, opened the door of the washing machine and peered inside to better sell the illusion while Bev sagely said, “That’ll really cut down on your water and power bill,” wiping up her spill with her socked foot.</p>
<p>Eddie, eyes still narrowed skeptically, said, “Well, the timer beeped two minutes ago, Richie, and I don’t know what the fuck that means.”</p>
<p>“Means it’s time to baste!” Richie cheered, leading the way out of the room, barely resisting the urge to loop an arm over Eddie’s shoulder and stealing one peek behind him to see both Mike and Bev leering at him, miming what Richie could only assume was ‘<em>go for it!</em>’ with wild uncoordinated hand gestures.</p>
<p>Which…</p>
<p><em>Hmmm</em>.</p>
<p>If it wasn’t just his imagination, if other people who <em>knew Eddie </em>could see it too…</p>
<p>Christ, Richie was so fucked.</p>
<p>                                                     </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Holidays weren’t usually something Eddie looked forward to.</p>
<p>Eddie’s aunt and grandparents lived too far away to for anyone to bother traveling for Thanksgiving so his childhood memories of them blurred together. His mom cooked a ‘healthy’ meal that wasn’t much different from their usual dinner which he would eat while she fussed over everything from his hair to his complexion to his appetite, Eddie silently wishing he were anywhere else.</p>
<p>What made Thanksgiving special was the way Richie would call at the end of the night and tell him what sort of leftovers the Tozier fridge contained, goading Eddie into sneaking out once his mother conked out on sleeping pills. If he gave into the pestering (which he always did), Richie would meet him at his window and escort him the three blocks over to the Tozier house where Eddie was presented with a heaping plate of food – the good stuff - turkey and gravy, stuffing and pie. Buttery rolls and weird Jell-o monstrosities dotted with fruit and nuts.</p>
<p>The Tozier parents would ruffle his hair and (Eddie realized now) very kindly not mention how strange it was that their son’s friend came over late at night to eat their leftovers and pass out in their son’s bed in a food-induced coma.</p>
<p>Looking back on it as an adult, Eddie wondered how much they suspected about Sonia. Or how much they knew about the things Richie did to make Eddie’s life a little better. The snacks he’d bring to school so Eddie’s stomach wouldn’t growl in class. The t-shirts and sweaters Richie let him steal because his mom never let him pick out his own clothes. All the nights Richie snuck into Eddie’s room because being alone in the house with his mother sometimes <em>terrified </em>Eddie but the possibility of her finding him missing in the morning and doing something to herself to punish him was so much worse.</p>
<p>When Eddie was an older teen, he skipped the ritual of Thanksgiving with his mom altogether and crashed the Tozier house party, spending the day with Richie’s parents and his sisters if they were in the mood to visit from college and Richie’s aunt and his huge collection of cousins from Bangor who only made the hour drive once a year and tried to make up for the missed time with volume and exuberance alone. Holidays were some of the few times the Tozier family really came together and maybe because of that, they went all out, everyone crammed in the kitchen to bump elbows and whip up dinner and laugh too loud.</p>
<p>There were so many of them that eating was a continuous activity – there was no long stuffy table like in magazines; just a counter covered in rotating food stuffs where everyone served themselves onto paper plates and ate standing up.</p>
<p>Being there was easy in a way Eddie’s own home never was. It was <em>nice </em>getting cooed over by Richie’s grandmother (who most the time seemed to think Eddie was another Tozier) and it was fun to accept the ‘secret’ beer Went let Richie and Eddie share on the front porch (like they didn’t drink fairly regularly by the time they were seniors in high school). Then they’d sneak away to the side of the house and smoke a joint with any amenable cousins and stuff themselves with mashed potatoes, high out of their fucking minds and giggling at the things Richie’s slightly batshit crazy aunt had to say about Ronald Reagan.</p>
<p>They were extremely fond memories and Eddie resented living so much of his life without them.</p>
<p>Thanksgiving with Myra was a much stuffier affair. They would usually have one of Myra’s friends and their inevitably bland husband over (whoever was in town over the holidays; the guests were a constantly changing stream of people Eddie never got to know particularly well). Hosting stressed Myra out and she often passive-aggressively complained about Eddie’s lack of contribution only to refuse his help because he sliced his hand open once peeling a potato and apparently that banned him for life from most the sharp utensils. But he’d dutifully set the table and clean the townhouse and put on his work Voice to seem more pleasant to whoever Myra was trying to impress that year.</p>
<p>They’d eat a dinner dictated by everyone’s various food-restrictions and make light, polite small talk and occasionally Eddie would watch football (more to avoid socializing and be up to date on office discussions than any real interest). Then he’d see their guests out the door and they’d go to bed in their separate rooms.</p>
<p>And that was it. That was his life. Year after year. He counted himself lucky if Myra let him have a second glass of wine without offering some sort of commentary on it. More than once he volunteered to take down the trash just to get a few blessed moments alone even if it meant spending time next to a festering dumpster. Somehow two extra guests plus Myra was an unmanageable amount of people to deal with even when a house filled with shouting Toziers had felt comfortable and warm.</p>
<p>The Losers’ Thanksgiving fell much closer to the Tozier end of the spectrum to Eddie’s complete lack of surprise.</p>
<p>Everyone got way too drunk and spent most the day in the kitchen making their favorite recipes, an assortment of appetizers and snacks set out on the counter for people to graze on while dinner cooked. Richie roasted his insanely huge turkey and wound up having to put it back in the oven in pieces once Eddie started carved into it, saw it wasn’t cooked enough, and maybe just a little bit freaked out even though everything came out fine after another forty minutes in the oven.</p>
<p>(Eddie had obsessively watched youtube videos on turkey carving because he didn’t have any food to contribute besides an obsessively researched collection of cheese but he wanted to help and since Richie had been planning for the group to eat the turkey communally with their hands, picking the meat right off the bones, Eddie figured he was doing everyone a favor.)</p>
<p>Overall Eddie considered it a win that nothing set on fire during the cooking process though Ben did get a small burn on the back of his arm which Eddie cooled under room-temperature tap water and slathered with a bit of petroleum jelly while Bev stood watch, scraping her fingers through Eddie’s hair in a way that made him feel like a doted upon cat but they were both drunk and it felt good so he had no complaints. Plus Richie kept stealing glances at them, something fierce hidden under his usual smile, and after all his weirdness, it was especially cathartic to have his almost undivided attention.</p>
<p>Bill broke two glasses before someone (Mike) made the executive decision to only let him drink out of plastic cups. Bev spilled gravy down her blouse and tried to tempt Ben into licking it out of her cleavage at the dinner table even though Ben’s face was red as a tomato. Richie started to make some sort of jokey-parody of the ‘<em>I’m grateful for </em>___’ speech in a Voice but wound up bursting into tears when he said ‘<em>my friends</em>’ and Eddie had to haul his stupid face in for a hug to calm him down. And Mike somehow convinced them to end the night in the hot tub in their underwear, all of them moaning about how stuffed they were.</p>
<p>It was amazing. Eddie hoped every Thanksgiving from then on was just like it (even if he woke up with a hangover the next day - though, to be fair, everyone but Mike was in the same boat so they spent most of Friday laying around on the living room couches watching bad lifetime Christmas movies, napping, and eating leftovers).</p>
<p>But earlier than Eddie was ready to let them go, the night before everyone had to return to their lives was upon them and the house was abuzz with packing, Eddie doing laps around the living room, kitchen, and office to make sure no one had forgotten anything. Mike lovingly tucked Silver into a corner of the garage and Eddie promised Bill he’d give the bike a tune-up as soon as possible because the thing looked like a death trap but it was practically an honorary Loser so it was worth the research Eddie would have to do into bike maintenance.</p>
<p>Once the last displaced sweater found its way back into the right suitcase and Mike’s final load of laundry was tumbling in the drier, they all gathered at the kitchen table for an official Losers Club meeting to discuss the logistics of Hanukkah, Christmas, and New Year’s. Since a week together obviously wasn’t enough, they all agreed to take as much time off as they could to meet up at Ben’s Nebraskan mountain home.</p>
<p>“It’s a little remote,” Ben admitted sheepishly. “It’s a two hour drive from the airport and the closest neighbors are fifteen minutes away. But there’s always snow in December.”</p>
<p>“<em>Murder mansion</em>,” Richie muttered from where he sat on the opposite side of the table. Bill swatted him on the arm (which should have been Eddie’s duty but he was too fucking far away) while Eddie traced the shape of the folded up glasses pressed against his thigh in his jean pocket, fingers following the familiar shape.</p>
<p>“I’m going to miss you guys like crazy,” Bev said, dropping her chin into her hand and looking around the table with open fondness. Mike slung an arm over her shoulder and pulled her into his side. “I think Richie’s got the right idea. Screw responsibilities, let’s live together.”</p>
<p>“<em>That’s what I’ve been saying</em>,” Richie sighed emphatically, his arms spreading wide over the table.</p>
<p>“I dunno, I’m a little puh-past the age where I think communes can w-work,” Bill said with a wry smile and Richie performatively glowered at him.</p>
<p>“Says the Loser who <em>just moved in</em>. And fuck you, Bill, we’re not too old to start a cult.”</p>
<p>“Wuh-woah, I said commune!” Bill burst out on a laugh</p>
<p>“Semantics,” Richie scoffed. “And we’re halfway there already. We already believe in aliens and magic and have performed at least <em>two </em>sacred rituals. Oh!” Richie broke out with a gasp, “I should go get some Kool-aid!”</p>
<p>“<em>Do not</em>,” Eddie interrupted before Richie could legitimately take the cult joke too far. The Losers were already a little… cliquey… but Eddie wasn’t going to worry about that. He had enough on his plate and whatever worked for them wasn’t worth picking apart. That was something Old Eddie would have done and New Eddie was happy to have friends at all, even if they were an admittedly strange group.</p>
<p>“N-not to change the subject,” Bill thankfully interrupted Eddie’s thoughts. Everyone swiveled their attention to him except Mike who was smiling at the ceiling. “But Muh-Mike actually invited me along on his ruh-r-road trip.” Bill started to turn pink. “You know, to keep my muh-mind off the divorce.”</p>
<p>“You’re leaving us for Mike <em>already</em>?” Eddie laughed.</p>
<p>“Just until after Nuh-New Year’s!” Bill added defensively. “I’ll be b-back – I have a manuscript due –”</p>
<p>Richie’s fake-sob and grabby hands interrupted him. “<em>They grow up so fast</em>!” he moaned and Bill slapped away his attempts to pull him into hug.</p>
<p>“Heading back to New Mexico?” Ben asked politely, raising his voice slightly to be heard over Richie and Bill’s laughing, swearing, and tussling. Eddie watched them fight, fingers tightened on the glasses through his pocket, something burning hot searing through his heart.</p>
<p>“Eventually,” Mike said calmly, watching Richie and Bill with warmth in his gaze. “Might swing through Vegas on the way.”</p>
<p>“What, you’re going to Vegas without us?” Richie whined and Bev joined in dryly.</p>
<p>“It’s like you don’t love us at all.”</p>
<p>“Should we do a group trip?” Ben asked, ever practical. “Maybe next year? Spring break 2017?”</p>
<p>“Oh shit yeah,” Richie agreed immediately. “We missed out on all those during our twenties so we need to start catching up. And don’t think I’ve forgotten about your promise to introduce us to the mysterious Kay, Ms. Marsh,” he said turning to Bev who perked up a bit. “Eddie’ll need to swing by New York at some point to wrap up his divorce, right Eds?” Eddie, more than a little blindsided, nodded. “So maybe we’ll meet up with you guys there sometime too.”</p>
<p>The ‘<em>we</em>’ was particularly glaring to Eddie who had been thinking a lot about how much he <em>did not </em>want to go back to New York alone to sign divorce papers and sit across a desk from Myra who (when he was feeling particularly anxious) he worried would crumple his resolve to dust with just a look.</p>
<p>But if Richie was going to invite himself along, it might not be so bad. Eddie could show him around a bit – there were a few spots Richie would probably love: the Museum of the Moving Image, Coney Island, the Central Park Zoo. And if they met up with Ben and Bev while they were there, even better.</p>
<p>Bill gasped in mock-hurt. “Nuh-n-now who’s leaving who out?”</p>
<p>Somehow, by the end of the night, they had almost a year’s worth of get-togethers planned and realistically Eddie knew a lot of those would fall through. They still had jobs and lives outside of one another (Ben and Bev ran their own companies and Bill and Richie had creative careers that were unexpectedly more restricting than the average salary job) but it meant something to Eddie that they were all on the same page, desperate to make up for lost time, excited to see each other again even before they split apart.</p>
<p>And fuck Eddie <em>loved </em>the Losers. Every single one of them. He knew that when he was thirteen and he agreed to follow Bill into the sewers, his fingers clenched in Richie’s shirtsleeve. He knew that when he was fifteen and they all watched Bev hanging out the passenger window of her aunt’s car disappear around a corner. He knew that three months ago when he held the heart of a monster in his hands with his five best friends and crushed it beneath his fingers.</p>
<p>The Losers made love easy but no one else ever had.</p>
<p>The love he felt for his mother was a choke collar wrapped around his throat; something used to hurt him when he misbehaved or acted out or just fucking <em>grew up </em>like normal kids were supposed to. The leash pulled less tightly now he could parse out memories with his therapist and Richie and the other Losers, the straining tug less taut than it was when he was twenty-five and she was sick and then all of a sudden she was <em>dead </em>and for one horrible moment that haunted him forever, he was <em>glad</em>.</p>
<p>Without the context of his childhood he’d been sure he was the worst kind of monster imaginable; what kind of son <em>wanted </em>their mother to die even if it was only one awful flashing thought in his brain? She was all he had and she’d loved him so much and he shouldn’t feel <em>relieved</em> but he did and he’d hated himself for that momentary lapse of empathy for fifteen years.</p>
<p>That’s where Myra fit in. He loved her the way he loved the smell of disinfectant and mothballs and rose-scented potpourri. Choosing her, marrying her, trying to make her happy by doing exactly what she asked was his way of begging the universe (or more specifically, the ghost of his mother) for forgiveness. If he couldn’t be a good son, maybe he could be a good husband.</p>
<p>But he wasn’t either of those things and, in the end, he loved Myra no more than he loved his mother which was with a dump-truck load of obligation.</p>
<p>Eddie quietly slid the broken glasses out his pocket under the table, fiddling with them between his knees as Bev and Richie and Bill loudly argued over a topic Eddie had missed while his thoughts drifted. Their raised voices were oddly comforting.</p>
<p>For a long time, Eddie had assumed there was something wrong with him, that he was a broken man who didn’t know how to love.</p>
<p>Looking around at the Losers, he knew that not to be true. His heart was bursting out of his chest with the feeling, his blood warmed by the way Bill hid a snort behind his hand and Mike smiled and Bev pressed a kiss to Ben’s temple and Richie’s eyes flashed to him like he was checking to make sure Eddie was laughing at his joke.</p>
<p>Eddie loved them. These people. <em>His </em>people.</p>
<p>Later that night, in the privacy of Eddie’s bedroom (they’d returned to the master since Mike and Bill were always the last to go to bed and generally passed out together in Bill’s room), Eddie spent a few minutes in the dark watching Richie’s chest rise and fall with the deep, even breaths of sleep. Despite the fact they’d stayed up later than they should have, all the Losers reluctant to end their time together, Richie’s eyes weren’t so darkly rimmed as they used to be and his skin had less of that exhausted pallor Eddie had noted the moment Richie walked into the Jade.</p>
<p>Asleep and without his glasses, Richie looked surprisingly young and happy and peaceful and Eddie was glad – so infinitely glad – that Richie had pushed him out of the way of that fucking claw because if Eddie had died in the sewer, he wouldn’t have this moment, his body so bursting with happiness he thought he’d die of it, even with Richie acting so fucking weird.</p>
<p>Eddie huffed a little laugh quietly to himself and scootched closer until he could press his face against Richie’s bony shoulder. He fell asleep warm and content.</p>
<p>The morning was filled with tearful goodbyes (most of those tears coming from Richie and Ben but everyone was a little misty-eyed) and prolonged hugs. Mike and Bill climbed into Mike’s truck and waved as they took off down the street, promising they’d see everyone come Christmas. Richie and Eddie drove Bev and Ben to the airport and parked the car to walk them inside, waiting in line with them while they checked their bag, watching them wind back and forth in the throng until they disappeared through security.</p>
<p>“Just you and me now, Eds,” Richie said, hands tucked into his pockets, jabbing at the crosswalk button with his elbow and looking everywhere but Eddie’s face. A thrilled little zing shot up Eddie’s spine at the concept. He already missed the Losers but<em> finally </em>he had Richie all to himself. Richie couldn’t avoid him by sneaking into the laundry room with Mike or disappear out into the backyard to smoke with Bev. He was all Eddie’s again – even more so now Bill was out of town. Not that Eddie wouldn’t miss Bill – he already did – but Eddie had Richie-related shit he had to get to the bottom of.</p>
<p>“Yeah, guess you can’t avoid me anymore, asshole,” Eddie reminded him sardonically.</p>
<p>Richie put on a big show of being offended. “<em>Whaaaaaat</em>?” he sing-songed. “I haven’t been <em>avoiding you</em>.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, sure,” Eddie snapped back, crossing his arms over his chest as they waited for the light to change, glaring until Richie’s eyes finally stopped darting around their surroundings and slid to meet his.</p>
<p>“Maybe you just can’t get enough of me,” Richie finally offered, faux-suave, blowing on his nails and buffing them on his shirt like some kind of idiot.</p>
<p>“Maybe I can’t,” Eddie admitted and it was totally worth it for the way Richie froze, huge eyes softening behind his thick glasses.</p>
<p>Feeling bold, Eddie stepped into Richie’s side, just close enough to encourage Richie to either take a step back or pull his arm out of his pocket and sling it over his shoulder. Richie swallowed heavily and, staring blankly ahead, he draped his arm along Eddie’s back and briefly gave Eddie’s bicep a squeeze.</p>
<p>Eddie let out a long sigh that was a week in the making.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>In the days following Thanksgiving, Richie managed - <em>super</em> subtly of course - to start a kiss-goodbye thing with Eddie. A oh-aren't-we domestic thing. A <em>I'm-desperately-in-love-with you-Eddie-please-notice-me</em> thing. </p>
<p>It wasn’t weird at all.</p>
<p>Mostly it started by accident. The first Monday after the holiday, Richie took too long convincing himself to get out of the shower (Eddie’s bathroom was fucking <em>nice </em>and sure, maybe he was still trying to keep a bit of space from Eddie which was <em>significantly harder </em>without all the other Losers around) so he was slightly frantic when he stumbled out of the bedroom, on the verge of running late to a meeting with Steve and some people looking for another monkey to throw in their writing room.</p>
<p>Eddie, somehow predicting Richie would be scrambling at the last minute, sat waiting at the kitchen counter with Richie's keys and Richie's ‘<em>I'm trying to look like a professional</em>’ jacket and a to-go cup of the good coffee Eddie picked out from the store stirred with two sugars and cream.</p>
<p>“Ohmygodyou’realifesaverI’llbebackbeforedinnerloveyoubye-” Richie said in one breath, grabbing the coffee and jacket from Eddie’s hands, dangerously endeared by the flat look of <em>almost</em> amusement in Eddie's big brown eyes and then - because he thought it would be kind of funny and cause he maybe wanted to push Eddie over into <em>actually</em> amused and because Richie’s brain was still circling around the time Eddie <em>asked for a kiss</em> - he leaned over and smacked a noisy peck to Eddie's cheek, right over the healed scar.</p>
<p>Eddie, bless his stony little heart, just said, “Take the 405 or you’ll be late,” like he'd been cross referencing routes and checking traffic because that's probably <em>exactly</em> what he'd been doing.</p>
<p>If Eddie had reacted in any way at all - if he’d said ‘<em>gross dude</em>’ or wiped his cheek off or laughed and shoved Richie away - <em>any</em> of the things Richie was expecting - he would have left it as a one-off joke and privately cherished the feel of Eddie's freshly shaved cheek and the smooth line of Eddie’s fading scar underneath his lips.</p>
<p>But he didn't! And without the proper response, Richie had no idea if it <em>was</em> a joke or if it was okay.</p>
<p>So instead of talking about it, he pressed his luck again the next day because he was a sane, healthy, well-adjusted adult.</p>
<p>Richie wasn’t running late the second time. They were both on their way out the door, splitting up in the garage to get into their respective cars. “You go first, I’ll close up,” Eddie told him, his suit jacket slung over his arm while he buttoned the cuffs of his dress shirt.</p>
<p>“You got it, babe,” Richie answered, dropping another kiss to Eddie's cheek before he could overthink it more than he already had and pulling away to surreptitiously watch for Eddie's reaction. </p>
<p>“And if you stop at the store later, text me,” Eddie continued on, completely unfazed while internally Richie spiraled. That was, like, <em>permission</em>, right? </p>
<p>(<em>Absolutely not</em>, some part of him firmly answered. He knew what consent was and the lack of a no wasn't a yes.)</p>
<p>...But it kinda <em>felt</em> like permission since Eddie had never ever even remotely been afraid to tell Richie ‘no’. </p>
<p>By Wednesday it was a <em>thing</em>. Richie knew because Eddie <em>hovered </em>in the kitchen after he said goodbye until Richie pulled him over for a chaste little peck on the cheek that Richie fucking <em>lived </em>for, Eddie looking smug as all fuck when he left through the garage leaving Richie to moan into a dishtowel for a solid three minutes once he was alone.</p>
<p>On Thursday, Eddie started leaning into it, offering his cheek when Richie was on his way out door for a recording session, Eddie distractedly turning his head with his eyes still on his phone so Richie had easier access.</p>
<p>And all that had to mean something, right? <em>Right</em>?!</p>
<p>The worst (<em>best</em>) thing was, Richie’s original goal was to use it as a way to gauge Eddie’s interest and the results were upsettingly positive. Bev and Mike wouldn’t <em>lie </em>to Richie but Eddie was a weird guy and the Losers functioned together in a way generally different from normal human interactions so their informed opinions weren’t <em>facts</em>. But Eddie had also gone a little feral when Richie tried to discreetly give him space and most morning they woke up full-on cuddling and now here he was basking in Richie’s affection like a smug little piece of shit so how the fuck else was Richie supposed to take that?</p>
<p>Plus, if Richie were being <em>really </em>honest with himself, he was hoping all the cheek kissing might convince Eddie – who was braver than Richie and generally a much more straight-forward human being – to figure out his own feelings (which were, hopefully, some kind of crush at the least). In an ideal world, Eddie would make the first move. Richie really wasn’t the kind of guy who took initiative when it came to relationship shit. He was never the <em>aggressor</em> during his past hook ups; he went with the flow and, true, that hadn’t given him the best fucking experiences but it beat out rejection by <em>a lot</em>. Like <em>a lot </em>a lot. Richie got enough of that shit from his career.</p>
<p>And sure, obviously Richie should just suck it the fuck up and talk to Eddie. Eddie had been brave a hundred times over in the last four months and Richie had done what? Come out on Twitter? Bought a house? <em>Not </em>done coke when his crush went out on a date with another dude?</p>
<p>That stuff was chump change in comparison to the things Eddie had accomplished and maybe it was his turn to step up. How hard was it <em>really</em> to say, ‘<em>hey dude, I kind of actually like you a lot. Do you maybe want to do more of this kissing thing but on the mouth and maybe horizontal in bed or even better, in front of a fucking rabbi?</em>’</p>
<p>Yeah, that’s right, saying anything like that was <em>very</em> fucking hard.</p>
<p>As they fell into a new routine – one that was lacking Bill as a buffer and now included a dresser and closet that housed both their clothes and a bedroom that Eddie definitely started calling <em>theirs</em> – it became increasingly more obvious that Richie had to tell Eddie <em>something</em>. It was killing him, legitimately killing him, so much so that he wound up stopping by Eddie’s office to drag him out for lunch, just to get a peek at the <em>Aaron</em>-dude Eddie had gone on a date with because apparently all the other shit wasn’t torture enough.</p>
<p>From the peek Richie stole through the glass walled courtyard (he’d asked Eddie to point him out and Eddie had rolled his eyes but complied, completely oblivious, the bastard), it turned out the guy <em>was </em>good looking and no, living with that information <em>did not </em>make Richie feel any better. But the fact that Eddie greeted him with a hug and let Richie kiss his cheek again before he left while they stood right there in the entry way of his fucking office building, Eddie’s potential coworkers milling around the lobby, meant more to Richie than all of Bev and Mike’s consistently encouraging text messages put together.</p>
<p>So Richie started workshopping The Conversation the same way he did his sets, pacing around the empty house when Eddie was at work and talking to himself. Rambling, really. And he only had one minor panic attack but it was probably good to get that out of his system before the Big Event.</p>
<p>In the end, Richie decided he should downplay the whole <em>endlessly-in-love</em> thing so as not to overwhelm Eddie or completely napalm the nice life they had going on now. Richie could express a <em>normal </em>amount of interest. That was a thing he was capable of doing.</p>
<p>‘<em>Hey Eds, do you wanna try going out on a date with me</em>?’</p>
<p>That wasn’t so bad. The nice thing about the word ‘date’ was, if Eddie seemed unclear about Richie’s intention, he could clarify by saying it twice. ‘<em>You know, a date-date.</em>’ What was clearer than that? </p>
<p>And if Eddie laughed and said fuck off, the whole thing could easily be played as a joke and Richie could retreat to the hills in their backyard and become a hermit and live with the mountain lions. That wouldn’t be so bad. Richie liked cats.</p>
<p>His whole plan centered on the idea that repetition resulted in memorization. Using that method, he’d done hour long stand-up routines in a total blackout so <em>one measly sentence </em>should be attainable. He chanted it to himself endlessly, ‘<em>Hey Eds, do you maybe wanna try going out on a date with me</em>?’ a thousand times a day so that when the right time came, the words would tumble out of his mouth with rehearsed perfection requiring very little input from his brain. Which was good because his brain felt like it was filled with horny bees.</p>
<p>The first weekend of December they wound up in Home Depot <em>again</em> on a hunt for more supplies. They’d been there often enough over the last two months Richie could have walked the floor plan in his sleep which was bizarre because he had gone his whole forty years of life before he bought a house only setting foot in one once when he broke the toilet seat in his old apartment by dropping a cast iron skillet on it (don’t ask) and was too embarrassed to ask his landlord if they had a spare.</p>
<p>Normally he’d be on cart duty but they were <em>supposedly </em>only stopping by to pick up a new pack of paint rollers which Richie already had dutifully tucked under his arm. Mentally, Richie was preparing for the inevitable moment Eddie found something unexpected huge or heavy that would require Richie to schlep back to the entrance and get a cart – they’d bickered over whether they needed one at the entrance even though Eddie <em>insisted</em> they’d be fine without - but it was hard to be too annoyed about that when he’d get to unsportingly hold his innate rightness over Eddie’s head for the rest of the night so either way it was a win/win for Richie.</p>
<p>Eddie mumbled something, mostly to himself, and Richie started debating which paintbrush on the display next to him was best suited to harass Eddie with – maybe one of the weird little foam guys? did anyone even use those? what the fuck for? - when Eddie grumbled to himself again, dug his hand into his pocket, and pulled out his phone.</p>
<p>Something plastic fell out his pocket and clattered to the ground but Eddie hadn’t noticed because he was too busy quietly cursing a string of expletives at his phone screen, a not uncommon occurrence. Pathetically endeared, Richie knelt and then paused with his hand outstretched towards the object Eddie had dropped, his brain spluttering into a fart.</p>
<p>His glasses. Richie’s glasses were on the ground. </p>
<p>Richie’s fingers automatically jumped to his face to shove at the frames - yep - still definitely there on his face where they were supposed to be, helping him see and shit.</p>
<p>But those were also his glasses on the ground, the familiar black boxy frames unmistakably his, earpieces folded neatly in to make them more compact.</p>
<p>He picked them up and, forehead scrunched in thought, stood to better study them.</p>
<p>The glasses in his hands were broken, the left frame cracked, a bit of something rusty-brown still clinging in the spider web lines across the lens. </p>
<p>With a jolt, Richie realized he was holding the glasses he’d been wearing when the Losers took on the clown, the frames cracked from who the fuck knows what exactly, the rusty-brown marks the remains of his <em>blood </em>sluiced out of his body when he’d shielded Eddie from the blow that would have killed him.</p>
<p>He must have been quiet for too long because Eddie turned towards him saying, “I don’t know, I hate the ceiling fixture in our room but electrical wiring is probably a whole <em>thing</em>…” Eddie trailed off when his big doe eyes dropped to Richie’s hand still cradling the broken glasses.</p>
<p>He bristled and tensed, gaze flashing back up to Richie’s face, already defensive when he swiped the frames right out of Richie palm and shoved them back into his pocket with a scowl.</p>
<p>“Eds?” Richie asked, so many questions in his head that they all got jammed up in his mouth like that old-timey comedy skit of too many people trying to walk out a door at the same time.</p>
<p>“That’s <em>not </em>my name,” Eddie insisted, twirling away and stomping down the aisle, leaving Richie no choice but to hurry behind in his wake.</p>
<p>“Are those my glasses…?”</p>
<p>“You’re <em>wearing </em>your glasses, fucknut,” Eddie snapped, his legs making quick work of the main thoroughfare, swiveling so fast on a turn Richie nearly lost him as he ducked into an aisle filled with glowing light fixtures.</p>
<p>“Okay… Why were they in your pocket?” Richie asked, widening his stride to catch up to Eddie and latching onto his arm to haul him to a stop. “I thought the hospital threw them away.”</p>
<p>Eddie recoiled in embarrassed-anger. “Is it a fucking <em>crime</em>? You had spares - it wasn’t like I <em>stole </em>them.” he demanded petulantly and Richie huffed out a laugh. </p>
<p>“I’m not mad,” Richie insisted, still blindingly confused. “But why are you carrying them around?”</p>
<p>Instead of answering, Eddie pointed at something over Richie’s shoulder and asked, “What do you think about that lamp for the bedroom? Too industrial?” </p>
<p>Richie didn’t fall for it, fascinated by the blotchy patches of red coloring Eddie’s stupidly handsome cheekbones and the way Eddie hadn’t yet shrugged off Richie’s grip on his arm.</p>
<p>“You’re being so fucking squirrelly, Eds,” Richie grinned, sensing a secret and positively thrilled by the need to suss it out. When Eddie’s eyes refused to meet his, Richie started wildly guessing. “Are you planning on cloning me with the leftover DNA? Or cosplaying as the Trashmouth? Oh my god, do you enter Richie Tozier look-a-like competitions and those glasses are your secret weapon?”</p>
<p>Eddie’s eyes finally met his but only to grit his teeth so hard a muscle in his jaw twitched.</p>
<p>“Is this some weird <em>kink</em>?” Richie asked with a shit-eating smile and finally Eddie broke.</p>
<p>“Why is everything a kink with you, what the fuck? No it’s not a <em>kink </em>you freak. It’s just…” Eddie grimaced and, unthinkingly, Richie stroked his forearm with his thumb. “I can’t carry my fucking inhaler around anymore because I set it on fire - fucking thanks for that, Mike - so I hold onto those.”</p>
<p>Eddie left it at that.</p>
<p>“Was that an actual answer?” Richie wondered aloud, painfully charmed by the flat angry line of Eddies strong brow and the pointed eye roll Eddie gave him in response. “Do you carry them around all the time?” Richie followed with, his brain overheating trying to understand because there was something there - something <em>important</em> - but he couldn’t figure it out.</p>
<p>“Not <em>all </em>the time,” Eddie huffily answered which, in Eddie-speak, meant he carried them around <em>most </em>of the time.</p>
<p>“But they’re broken?” Richie said, which must have been kind of stupid because Eddie snorted out a derisive little sound.</p>
<p>“It’s not like I’m not <em>wearing</em> them, asshole.”</p>
<p>“So you just keep them in your pocket…” Eddie glared at him in obviously forced calm. “...like you carried around your inhaler?”</p>
<p>And now that he thought to look for those memories, a thousand instances burst back to life in Richie’s brain. Even after the Summer of It, Eddie had held onto his inhaler despite the fact Richie never saw him use it again. He’d raggedly confessed one night, the two of them curled up in the pitch black of Eddie’s bedroom, that it had never been real, that he’d never had asthma, that his pills were all bullshit, that <em>all </em>of it was bullshit and Richie remembered burning with hatred and confusion and impotence.</p>
<p>But even after that, occasionally Eddie would pull his old aspirator out of his pocket and clasp it tight in his fist - when he was anxious or scared or frustrated - and Richie remembered wondering whether Eddie was slipping back into old habits but he'd never taken a puff, seemingly deriving comfort from the feel of it in his hand alone.</p>
<p>Which meant… which meant Richie’s broken glasses were the thing he gripped now when he needed to center himself - the ones cracked down the center of one lens and stained with Richie’s blood. Those nasty frames that were probably covered in sewer bacteria and again, not to undersell the point, <em>Richie’s blood</em>; those glasses had been hanging out in Eddie’s pocket since the fight with the clown more often than not.</p>
<p>Oh fuck. <em>Oh fuck. </em></p>
<p>That <em>meant somethin</em>g.</p>
<p>That meant <em>Richie </em>meant something.</p>
<p>To Eddie.</p>
<p>Physical, tangible proof Eddie <em>something-ed </em>Richie. And maybe it wasn’t love but it was close, close enough Richie had to try.</p>
<p>This was <em>it</em>. The moment he’d been waiting for.</p>
<p>Richie’s heart started racing like he was about to step out on stage, a giddy, weightless, roller coaster jump to his stomach. Eddie was looking at him like he expected to be chastised or made fun of, his eyes all huge and dewy, forehead scrunched into a frown, dimples on full display. Somehow the two versions of Eddie in Richie’s mind overlaid each other – the tiny spitfire kid who was Richie’s playground love and the hurt, brave man he’d grown up to be – and Richie couldn’t hold it in a second longer.</p>
<p>He opened his mouth, expecting his rehearsed line to come out easy-peasy, inflection carefully cultivated to best emphasize sincere neutrality. What came out instead was:</p>
<p>“I love you, Eds.”</p>
<p>What the ever loving<em> fuck</em>?</p>
<p>Eddie’s brow scrunched up in that very specific way that made him look extremely pissed off but Richie spent enough time in Eddie’s company to know it was <em>actually</em> concern.</p>
<p>“I love you too, Rich,” he said immediately, the same way all the Losers did, an automatic response because it was a universal truth.</p>
<p>And Richie kind of hated himself for that not being enough. But luckily that gave him a chance to back track.</p>
<p>Except instead of laughing the whole thing off and moving on with his life, Richie inexplicably clarified, “I mean I’m<em> in</em> love with you,” half hoping a comet would come and obliterate him off the Earth.</p>
<p>So much for his fucking plan. Apparently he was going the improv route, jesus christ almighty.</p>
<p>Eddie's eyebrows tried even harder to merge into one super-brow, smashing together in confusion. He stood there frowning, stewing Richie's words over for a minute while Richie nearly vibrated out of his skin. Eventually Eddie snapped out, “<em>What</em>?” his voice flat with irritation.</p>
<p>“I've loved you since the fourth grade,” Richie blurted, completely unable to stop himself. “Maybe even earlier. But <em>for sure </em>in the fourth grade.” Wow, so much for playing it cool.</p>
<p>Eddie blinked. “Richie, <em>what the fuck</em>?”</p>
<p><em>Oh no,</em> Richie thought with a distant sort of fatalism. <em>Here it comes</em>.</p>
<p>“I'm, like, actually kind of obsessed with you,” Richie heard himself say and then wanted to die. Why the<em> fuck</em> would he pull that out during his confession? Did he want Eddie to call the fucking cops? “Your name was the first thing that came back to me when Mike called. And then just a whole bunch of really embarrassing memories of, like, pining for you?”</p>
<p>Eddie blinked again, mouth agape, and for some fucking reason, Richie kept talking.</p>
<p>“<em>And then </em>I realized that, the whole time I’d forgotten you, the guys I found attractive or whatever were a very specific type of guy.” Richie swallowed drily but apparently his desert-dry mouth didn’t stop words from burbling out. “<em>You</em>. They - uh - they were like you. Funny and kind of mean and bossy. Fast talkers. Didn't put up with my bullshit. Or they just looked like you. <em>Oh my god why am I still talking</em>?”</p>
<p>Eddie's eyebrows had stopped their migration downward and started lifting up, higher and higher, eyes widening until his pupils were surrounded by a perfect ring of white.</p>
<p>“I carved our initials into the kissing bridge when we were thirteen,” Richie said next, his mouth working completely separate from his brain. “I - before then I thought it might stop. Loving you, I mean. But after It there was no fucking way so I stole my dad’s pocket knife and carved ‘<em>R plus E</em>’ into the kissing bridge like a love-sick weirdo. And <em>it’s still there, Eds</em>,” he admitted, a little breathlessly, the image of time-worn wood flashing before his open eyes. Proof he had once been brave and full of stupid desperate love - so much so he wanted to leave a part of it where everyone could see<em>. </em></p>
<p>“I saw it on my way to the arcade. <em>Shit</em>, I shoulda stopped and re-carved it,” Richie realized as he said the words out loud. Then he blinked, wishing he could shut the fuck up. </p>
<p>He dropped his grip on Eddie’s forearm because the muscles under his fingers had gone stiff and if Eddie wisely decided to run, he was free to go. Richie didn’t want to pin him in place - that was the last thing Eddie deserved after <em>everything </em>- but Richie’s arm felt like lead when it dropped to his side and he tucked both hands deep into his pockets hoping there they’d stop shaking so bad.</p>
<p>“And, like, I thought I’d just bottle that shit up, you know? Eddie, I super don't want to scare you because I’m happy just being your friend. Seriously.”</p>
<p>Eddie was still staring at him. <em>Holy god why was Eddie just </em>staring <em>at him</em>? Richie’s eyes jumped up, vacant gaze landing on a row of utilitarian lamps over Eddie's shoulder so blue-bright he immediately developed spots in his vision. But maybe that was better than looking at Eddie's face and seeing… whatever was going on there.</p>
<p>“And - and nothing has to be <em>weird</em>, okay?” Richie promised desperately. Why the<em> fuck</em> had he bought this up? And in a <em>Home Depot</em>? That was like, <em>the least sexy </em>place on earth. What the fuck was wrong with him? “I don’t know why I’m telling you this -”</p>
<p>“Richie -” Eddie finally said, his voice strangled.</p>
<p>“But I want you to - I guess I <em>needed </em>to tell you -”</p>
<p>“I didn’t know,” Eddie said. Voice flat. Almost completely without punctuation. <em>Definitely</em> without any hint of apology or gentleness, not that Richie would have expected anything less from Eddie.</p>
<p>Richie swallowed. “Okay,” he said, voice strained as he tried to screw on a self-deprecating smile. There was a long moment - a slightly unhealthy pause - where Richie tried to pretend he couldn’t feel Eddie’s eyes darting all over his face. “And now that you do…?”</p>
<p>“I don’t…” Not a great start. Richie cringed in preparation for rejection and abject horror but Eddie seemingly didn’t have an end for that sentence. “<em>Why</em>?” Eddie finally said, the word long and drawn out and more than slightly confrontational. Unfortunately, it was too open ended for Richie to realistically decipher and the confused look Richie sent to the ceiling prompted Eddie to extrapolate, “Why me?”</p>
<p>“Oh umm, that’s a really big question.” When Eddie only stood there obviously waiting, Richie continued, “I guess I just like you a bunch and always want to be with you? Not in a murderer-you-and-wear-your-skin kind of way - <em>okay wow this is going really bad</em> -”</p>
<p>“Rich,” Eddie exhaled and thank fuck there was an edge of humored-exasperation to his tone. “<em>Explain</em>.”</p>
<p>“I dunno, man, I love you cause you’re <em>you</em>,” Richie said, aware his voice had taken on a slightly whiny edge and hating it. “You’re funny and you’re not even trying to be and you face the things that terrify you and you’ve got this surprisingly tender heart under all your prickliness. You don't apologize for the things you want or lie to yourself. You take care of your friends and stand up to your bullies and I don’t know dude. At some point it went from ‘<em>oh man, I like this kid</em>’ to ‘<em>oh man, I </em>love<em> this kid</em>,’ again, maybe sometime in the fourth grade but that’s hard to nail down because I always fucking thought you were so cool and so dumb and, like, wanted to be with you all the time?”</p>
<p>Richie raked a hand through his hair wishing the words would stop pouring out of him but it was like he was leaking. “And you’re so <em>cute</em>, Eds. It fucks me up, man. It fucked me up when you were thirteen and you wore those tiny shorts and it fucked me up when you were eighteen and tried to grow that terrible mustache and it fucks me up now that you’re forty and your knees fucking pop if you stand up too fast. You just keep getting <em>cuter </em>and like, what the fuck? My heart can’t take this shit anymore, you’re gonna kill me, you know that right?”</p>
<p>Distantly, Richie wondered if one of the nearby glowing light fixtures could be used to electrocute himself. He was growing increasingly concerned that was the only way to put a stop to his rambling.</p>
<p>Eddie was quiet, <em>dead silent</em>, and even though Richie’s vision was honest to god blacking out around the edges, he had to say it, clearly, one more time, not a painful stream of consciousness, just the words. He forced himself to look Eddie straight in his goddamn Bambi eyes because if Richie only got this moment, he was going to leech as much human connection from it as possible.</p>
<p>Richie took a deep breath, awed by the way Eddie immediately mirrored him, chest rising in one huge inhale.</p>
<p>“I love you, Eds,” Richie exhaled, and despite everything, it was a relief to finally say it out loud. “Always have.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>😬😬😬</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0021"><h2>21. Chapter Twenty-One</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So here we are at the point where the rating of this fic bumps up from M to E because peeps are finally gonna get ✧･ﾟ: *✧dicked down✧･ﾟ: *✧ which leads us to the shortest content warning in this fucking fic.</p>
<p>TW: sexy stuff and naked penises.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“So… yeah,” Richie said as the silence stretched on. Before Eddie’s eyes, Richie skin blanched into a shade usually indicative of incoming vomit. “Think you could point me in the direction of a staple gun so I can bolt my fucking mouth shut?”</p>
<p>But Eddie was speechless enough for the both of them. That wasn't a state he often found himself in and he scrabbled, somewhat remotely, to pull himself back to the present.</p>
<p>Richie <em>loved </em>him. Loved Eddie. Apparently he <em>always </em>had.</p>
<p>Somehow that fact was both ridiculously impossible and unbearably obvious now it was pointed out. <em>Of course</em> Richie loved Eddie. Even among the Losers who treated Eddie kindly and valued his company and supported him through thick and thin, Richie was special.</p>
<p>He always had been.</p>
<p>“If –” Richie started and his voice was so raspy he had to clear his throat before he continued. “If you tell me to forget about it, I will. I mean <em>I’ll try</em> – it’s been there for thirty years but if that’s what you want, that’s what I’ll do, okay? Really. I swear. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” His adam’s apple bobbed, a film of tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. “And hey, if you want some space I can get out of town for a few weeks, let you have the house to yourself. If you want me to move back into my own bedroom, no problem, okay? Hell, if you want to move back to New York, I’ll help you pack. I’ll do anything you tell me to, Eds.”</p>
<p>That was insane – Eddie didn’t want to move back to New York and he didn’t want Richie to leave either – fuck, he didn’t want Richie out of his <em>sight</em>. But when he opened his mouth to say so, nothing came out, his brain churning so hard Eddie worried he was in the midst of an aneurism, the circuits of his brain frying up like shriveled wires.</p>
<p>It was almost an out of body experience, his mind pulling away to study the two of them from a third point perspective; Eddie and Richie, standing like idiots in the deserted lighting aisle at Home Depot. The pale, almost green tint of Richie’s skin. His hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched. The watery sheen of his eyes.</p>
<p>Then Eddie saw everything deeper, Richie x-rayed like a bad special effect. The smear of paint on his neck from touching up the molding in the bedroom that they shared. The huge scar across his back from when he shoved Eddie out of death’s path and took the blow himself. His huge, stupid heart probably pounding too hard to be healthy for a man his age.</p>
<p>Eddie looked deeper. To the dorky child Richie used to be and still carried around inside him, curled up in the place between heartbeats. To the open arms he’d offer anytime Eddie snuck out his bedroom window even though they both knew well enough Eddie could handle the small jump over the bushes on his own. To the hard obnoxious laugh that would burst out of him when Eddie said something funny and the smile that welcomed Eddie any time he walked into a room.</p>
<p>As Eddie’s brain rebooted, he flickered through his memories in fast forward – all of them so crystal fucking clear because they’d been magically stolen and then returned and somehow they hadn’t faded in the interim - and now that he knew what to look for, he saw it <em>everywhere</em>.</p>
<p>Eddie remembered burning whole-heartedly with trust, Richie’s arms wrapped around him tight, a certainty down deep in his bones that Richie would keep him safe if Stan’s car slid on black ice and they crashed a car full of teenagers into a tree.</p>
<p>He remembered Richie sobbing, doped out of his mind after the dentist, whispering, “<em>I couldn’t stand it if you left</em>,” into his pillow, his voice so muffled through a mouth of gauze and cotton balls Eddie didn’t work out the words until he was lying in his own bed later on that night, the realization doing something to his stomach that felt like hunger.</p>
<p>He remembered the summer after It, bursting out of his house every morning despite his mother’s protests to find Richie waiting, gesturing grandly to the pegs on the back of his bike and declaring, “<em>Your chariot, my liege</em>.” And Eddie would climb on and grip Richie's shoulders tight with one good hand and the fingers sticking out of his cast, knowing with his <em>soul</em> Richie would take him wherever he wanted to go.</p>
<p>He remembered rough housing at the quarry and chicken fights and always demanding to be paired up with Richie and never ever winning, pretending to be mad at Richie about it but laughing his head off at the same time.</p>
<p>He remembered looking at Bev while she laid out in the sun and thinking he'd never seen so much bare skin on a girl before, and later, in high school, looking at Richie as they panted on the shore after a race, watching Richie’s suddenly so much broader chest rise and fall for reasons that weren’t the same but weren't entirely different either.</p>
<p>He remembered clutching a phone to his ear and thinking ‘<em>I don’t want some girl hanging on Richie’s arm</em>,’ and letting an opportunity pass, relieved to his <em>core </em>when Richie didn’t once ask anyone to dance at junior prom.</p>
<p>He remembered a spaghetti dinner and a tearful goodbye and the spark that lit him up like lightning when Richie walked into the Jade of the Orient, huge and adult but still <em>him</em>, grown into his looks like Bev had said, Eddie’s heart pounding a complicated rhythm against his rib cage.</p>
<p>He remembered the hundred-million times he looked at Richie and thought ‘<em>that one’s mine</em>’ in a hundred-million different ways - rattling off a lie to the attendance officer to get him out of detention, ripping into the assholes on twitter who called him slurs, throwing a fencepost down the throat of a fucking eldritch monster because <em>no fucking way you can have him, ass-clown</em>.</p>
<p>Was that love? </p>
<p>Was that <em>being in love</em>?</p>
<p>Was it <em>love </em>that made Eddie say the stupidest, most inappropriate things in the hopes of hearing Richie snort? Was it <em>love </em>that made his heart race when Richie woke up after him, blinking the sleep from his eyes to squint at Eddie, smiling like Eddie was the best fucking thing he ever saw? Was it <em>love </em>that made Eddie think about Richie a million times a day, sometimes out of practicality but most times just in curious passing thought? A random, ‘<em>what’s Richie doing</em>?’, ‘<em>how’s his day going</em>?’, ‘<em>what terrible joke would he come up with if he heard Ryan from HR say he’d never eaten a hotdog he didn't like</em>?’</p>
<p>Love had only ever been complicated for Eddie, something hard won and dangled almost out of reach, but Richie’s <em>lifetime </em>(holy <em>shit</em>) of unassuming affection and support was so far from what Eddie knew as ‘<em>love</em>’ that he hadn’t even recognized it. For as long as Eddie had understood them, the words, ‘<em>I love you</em>,’ meant, ‘<em>you owe me something</em>.’</p>
<p>But that didn’t add up when it came to Richie – obviously not, the guy was standing there like the faintest breeze would knock him over, his face twisted up like he was physically restraining himself from throwing himself at Eddie’s feet and apologizing. And Eddie didn’t doubt, for a single second, that if he asked Richie to drop the whole thing and never bring it up <em>he would</em>. He would do that. He would do that for Eddie even if it killed him.</p>
<p>But that wasn’t what Eddie wanted. He knew that intrinsically – god, he’d always wanted <em>more </em>of Richie, wanted <em>all </em>of him, and here he was saying Eddie could have him. That, insanely, maybe Eddie always <em>had</em>.</p>
<p>And the craziest part of it was how that thing Eddie felt for Richie; that huge, unimaginable thing that pulsed in time with the beating of Eddie’s heart was so <em>easy</em>. It felt <em>good</em> and so never once had Eddie thought it might be the same thing his mother forced from him and his wife resented him over.</p>
<p>But if that feeling <em>was</em> love…</p>
<p>If that was <em>love</em> - not the love of friendship but the other love, <em>romantic </em>love… it had been there forever. Maybe all along.</p>
<p>Eddie blinked and time slipped back into place, Richie still standing there, hands stuffed in his pockets, perpetual five ‘o’clock shadow extra dark compared to his unnaturally pale skin, a new packet of paint rollers shoved under his elbow because they’d gotten distracted arguing about fucking <em>Harry Potter </em>midway through painting Bev’s bathroom and forgot what they were doing, ordered pizza and then fell asleep with the second movie playing on TV. When they woke up, they found the rollers they’d left out had dried up all crusty overnight but instead of anyone getting mad about it, they’d laughed it off and hoped in the car, picking up their debate where they’d left it the night before.</p>
<p>It had been a great night followed by a great morning. Every day was a good day, even the bad ones, now that he spent them with Richie.</p>
<p>Suddenly it was so fucking obvious.</p>
<p>“Okay,” Eddie said, the words ‘<em>I love you</em>’ completely insignificant in comparison to the hurricane inside Eddie’s head. How was he supposed to shove all that stuff into three words with the smallest size-to-meaning ratio in human existence? It was impossible.</p>
<p>“<em>Okay</em>?” Richie parroted, his face twisting into confusion but before he could open his mouth and start spewing any more insanity, Eddie stepped into his space, leaned up on his toes (the fucking sasquach), and pressed a tentative kiss to the corner of Richie’s open mouth, the same mouth he’d been thinking about in a way that retrospectively maybe should have clued Eddie in on the whole <em>in love </em>thing way earlier. </p>
<p>As far as kisses went, it should have been nothing. <em>Most </em>kisses, in Eddie’s experience, were nothing. A bizarre trading of germs, some leftover animal instinct to press food-holes together for comfort, a cultural norm to express affection Eddie hadn’t ever been very partial to.</p>
<p>But the soft, watery gasp Richie made at the contact did things to Eddie’s stomach no other kiss had ever accomplished. The way Richie ever so slightly chased Eddie’s retreat to steal another, small, gentle, almost-nothing kiss sparked a fire over every inch of Eddie’s skin, the sensation so bright he almost expected all the bulbs in the light fixtures around them to start popping in an electrical surge.</p>
<p>“Okay,” Eddie repeated, sinking to the soles of his feet, opening his eyes to find Richie’s gaze <em>very </em>close, <em>very </em>wet, and a little vacant with disbelief. “Yeah. Me too.”</p>
<p>There was maybe twenty seconds where Richie stared blankly at Eddie, long enough that Eddie was about to turn away figuring the matter was settled (a little anti-climactically, Eddie thought, but if Richie needed A Moment he could have one), before Richie yanked his hands out of his pocket in almost comical desperation, the paint rollers clattering to the ground as he grabbed Eddie by the neck and hauled him back into another kiss.</p>
<p>And <em>oh</em>. Had Eddie thought those little pecks would cause an electrical surge? This one would set the fucking building on fire. Richie’s hand was just <em>unfairly </em>huge where it wrapped around the back of his neck, angling his head so when their lips slotted together, their noses didn’t bump and Richie’s glasses only kind of got in the way. </p>
<p>Richie <em>moaned </em>against Eddie’s mouth, which might have been the hottest thing Eddie had ever experienced, but that was almost immediately eclipsed when Richie’s tongue ran along the seam of his lips. And in a move he couldn’t explain and would definitely deny later, Eddie pushed Richie’s glasses up to his forehead and fisted a handful of his hair to better yank him down into proper kissing range. If the idiot was gonna be a billion feet tall, the least he could do was bend over so Eddie didn’t need to stand on his toes.</p>
<p>When they pulled apart panting, Richie’s glasses sliding back down to his nose and landing crookedly now that Eddie’s face wasn’t there to hold them up, Richie looked, if anything, even paler compared to the red splots of flush high on his cheeks.</p>
<p>Hating how endeared he was (not hating it at all because now he understood it, now he didn’t have to fight it, now he knew it was <em>love</em> making him so fucking giddy), Eddie reached up to straighten Richie’s glasses and let his hand land on his cheek in a slightly less than gentle pat. “If you throw up right now I will literally never forgive you.”</p>
<p>“<em>Okay</em>,” Richie said, voice cracking, swallowing a little gasp when Eddie took his hand, staring at their interlocked fingers in wide-eyed shock. Eddie picked up the rollers from the ground and smirked at Richie’s flabbergasted expression.</p>
<p>“Let’s get out of here,” Eddie said, tugging Richie by their interlocked fingers and marveling at how <em>right </em>it felt to stay connected to him like that as they wound their way to the front of the store.</p>
<p>Feeling high - like he’d just taken a hit from one of Bill’s joints or popped an Adderall or jumped off the cliff at the quarry - Eddie led Richie to the checkout counter, very aware Richie was leaking tears and making noises that were probably some kind of happy sobbing/laughter. The checkout girl, however, very understandably didn’t know the nuances of Richie’s crying and cut him a worried look.</p>
<p>“Is everything… okay?” she asked tentatively, obviously reluctant to get involved with the adult quietly weeping into his hands and purchasing paint supplies.</p>
<p>“Oh yeah,” Eddie reassured her, sliding his credit card into the chip reader. Eddie was pretty sure he was smiling, probably in the way that drew a lot of attention to the pink line of his cheek scar, but he couldn’t get himself to stop. “This idiot just confessed his lifelong undying love for me, that’s all.”</p>
<p>“Oh my god you’re <em>the worst</em>,” Richie moaned from behind his hands.</p>
<p>“Now we have to go make out in the car like teenagers,” Eddie said, smirking even wider when Richie dropped his hands, eyes <em>ginormous</em> behind his glasses, his mouth falling open with an audible pop. Eddie laughed loudly, obnoxiously charmed.</p>
<p>“Wait, <em>what</em>?” Richie breathed.</p>
<p>“Uhm, congratulations?” the poor checkout girl said, clearly deciding whether she should laugh or call someone for backup.</p>
<p>“Yeah yeah yeah, receipt please, hurry,” Richie demanded, snatching the paper from her outstretched hand and grabbing the rollers before he speed-walked out the door, tugging Eddie by the fingers they both unanimously agreed to keep intertwined.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Had Richie thought he would regret dousing Eddie in word vomit in the middle of a Home Depot? Had he really been so sure he had made the worst decision of his life? Had he honestly spent the most excruciating minute in existence watching Eddie stare blankly into space and wishing he could turn back time and take it all back?</p>
<p>Richie was an <em>idiot</em>.</p>
<p>He’d never be able to pass a Home Depot again without springing a boner, very gently weeping, or maybe doing both at the same time. He’d ask Eddie to marry him in a Home Depot. He’d buy out the store for a night and hold their wedding reception there. He wanted to be buried under the lighting section, rotting away inches from where Eddie – brave, perfect Eddie – stood on his toes (cute cute <em>cute</em>) and fucking <em>kissed </em>him.</p>
<p>Richie had exactly the forty-ish second sprint from the entrance of the store to where they’d parked the car to formulate all his future Home Depot-centric plans before Eddie, the wonderful fucking lunatic, <em>shoved </em>him against the passenger side of the Mustang and was on him again, mouths slotting together clumsily and Richie was too busy for further thought because he was on <em>fire</em>.</p>
<p>Eddie’s kissing style wasn’t particularly nuanced (not that Richie was any fucking expert, not many of his fellow closet-case hook ups wanted to make-out – hell, a lot of them didn’t even want to make <em>eye-contact</em>) but what he lacked in skill he made up for in determination and exactly the kind of bossiness Richie had been fantasizing about since he was ten and a good chunk of his time was spent hoping Eddie would push him over on the playground and sit on him.</p>
<p>And, not to be a total fucking sap about it, but the slightly uncoordinated way Eddie licked into his mouth was actually the best thing ever because it was <em>real </em>and it was <em>Eddie </em>and that was the kind of detail that slotted perfectly into place but Richie never would have been able to imagine on his own.</p>
<p>And oh, Eddie apparently liked pulling Richie’s hair, using two handfuls at the nape of Richie’s neck to angle their faces into a position he approved of. And wasn’t that just perfect because at the harsh tug that was half leveraging, half sheer ferocity, and <em>all Eddie</em>, Richie’s legs turned to fucking noodles and all the blood in his body redirected itself straight to his dick.</p>
<p>Richie, not totally sure what to do with his hands or what real estate was kosher, hovered his palms over Eddie’s hips and, as if Eddie had sucked the thought out through Richie’s mouth, he pulled back enough to mutter, “Fucking <em>touch me</em>, Rich.”</p>
<p>The noise Richie made at that demand was utterly inappropriate for a Home Depot parking lot or indeed <em>any</em> public space - a wonton cross between a whimper and a moan that would have embarrassed the shit out of Richie except he was on another plane of existence. Given tacit permission, Richie wrapped his arms around Eddie’s slender, sturdy waist, absolutely losing it at the feel of Eddie’s body plastered against his chest and trying to commit to memory the shape of his ribcage as it heaved underneath Richie’s hands.</p>
<p>Whether it was at the horny noise Richie had made or at the slightly crushing (sorry, not sorry) embrace, Eddie groaned into Richie’s mouth and for half a second, Richie was fairly sure he was either going to cum or drop fucking dead.</p>
<p>“You’re – so – fucking - stupid,” Eddie mumbled against Richie’s lips but the sting of it was offset by the fact that between every word, he pressed a kiss to Richie’s mouth; fierce angry brands that felt like he was being claimed. “I – can’t – believe –”</p>
<p>What Eddie couldn’t believe, Richie would never find out because Richie’s hips, glued as they were to Eddie’s, jolted up in a grind he had exactly 0% control over and their lips parted when they both broke off kissing to pant heavily into each other’s mouths.</p>
<p>Eddie was hard. Standing as he was in the space between Richie’s feet, Richie leaned against the Mustang to even out their heights a bit better, their dicks were getting <em>awfully </em>fucking chummy and Richie’s entire existence boiled down to where his and Eddie’s groins aligned.</p>
<p>And Richie could <em>feel </em>him. Could feel Eddie. Eddie who was kissing him and clutching at his shoulders and sporting a truly impressive erection.</p>
<p>Because of<em> Richie</em>.</p>
<p>“I – I think I need to sit down for a second,” Richie admitted breathily even though he was pretty sure they’d have to call the fire department to unclamp his arms from around Eddie’s midsection.</p>
<p>Eddie pulled back, brow furrowed in concern and something that might have been self-consciousness but Richie’s cognitive thinking skills had been reduced to fucking soup. “Why, what’s wrong? Am I -”</p>
<p>“<em>No</em>,” Richie panted desperately, dizzy, tilting his head back to suck in a big breath and try to calm himself down. “I just have no fucking blood in my brain cause it’s all in my dick and I don’t really want to faint on you.”</p>
<p>Eddie blinked, visibly digesting that, but before Richie could start to worry he’d ruined everything by verbally acknowledging whatever was going on (something he had done<em> many</em> times in the past because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut), Eddie laughed sudden and bright – the <em>best </em>kind of Eddie laugh, the kind that clearly took him by surprise because he didn’t try to temper it with bravado or fake-annoyance – and with Richie’s arms still wrapped around his waist, Richie could <em>feel</em> <em>that too</em>, the way his body shook with laughter, and that was somehow just as transformative as feeling Eddie’s dick against his own.</p>
<p>Unconsciously Richie tightened his arms and if he could somehow unhinge his jaw like a snake and swallow Eddie whole, he would, even though that was fucking <em>insane</em>.</p>
<p>Richie might have been staring at him a little dopily - he had no fucking clue what kind of face he was making and most likely he didn’t <em>want </em>to know – but when Eddie finally stopped laughing, his huge eyes were unimaginably soft as he gently straightened Richie’s glasses, a smile unlike any other Richie had <em>ever </em>seen (and he’d thought he’d seen them all) making his dimples pop and his eyes fucking anime-sparkle and really. Richie was so <em>so </em>fucked.</p>
<p>“You’re right,” Eddie said, clearly trying not to grin and failing spectacularly. “Get in the car, Rich. We should be doing this at home.”</p>
<p>Thank god Eddie was there to physically hold him up because his legs literally buckled in what might actually be legitimately a swoon. Eddie only laughed some more, nudging Richie over until he could open the door and manhandle Richie inside, his laughter loud and unrestrained as he circled the car and threw himself into the driver’s seat.</p>
<p>“You have approximately twenty minutes to get your shit together, Richie, cause we are picking up right where we left off as soon as we pull into the fucking garage,” Eddie said remorseless, and the tears that had stopped (thank fucking god) because Eddie had promised they’d make-out threatened to reappear now that a plethora of snot wouldn’t interfere directly with kissing.</p>
<p>Richie buried his face in his hands for a minute trying to catch his breath and cool the fuck down as Eddie swung the Mustang out of the parking spot and practically peeled out of the lot. It wasn’t until Eddie asked, “Seriously, are you okay?” that Richie lowered them, uncovering his smudged glasses to gape at Eddie.</p>
<p>“<em>I’m</em> <em>great</em>,” Richie answered eventually, strangled sounding. “Our dicks just made first contact,” his mouth said without permission from his brain and he very nearly blacked out in horror but Eddie burst into unrestrained laughter.</p>
<p>Richie swallowed back another desperate noise – god, Eddie was okay with it, he was letting Richie <em>talk </em>about it, letting him make stupid fucking jokes and <em>laughing along</em> – how was this real? But now that Eddie’s mouth wasn’t actively on him, Richie found he could formulate an entire thought that wasn’t specifically about the intricacies of kissing the man of his dreams and it turned out he had <em>questions</em>.</p>
<p>“So uh…” Richie started, pausing to clear his throat. “Think we can circle back to the whole ‘<em>me too</em>’ thing?”</p>
<p>Eddie shot him a Look, faintly bemused and lightly exasperated. “It’s a feminist movement that started on Twitter -”</p>
<p>“Not – <em>Eddieeee</em>,” Richie whined, impossibly endeared by Eddie’s cackle. “I told you I –” he choked a bit but plowed on determined, “- I told you I <em>love</em> you and you said ‘<em>me too</em>’. What the fuck does that <em>mean</em>?”</p>
<p>Eddie shot him another Look, condescendingly pitying this time in a way Richie knew was meant to be taken as a joke but he was <em>drowning</em>. “It means ‘<em>me fucking too</em>’.”</p>
<p>After a quiet moment of realigning his expectations, Richie decided he could live with that. ‘<em>I love you</em>,’ ‘<em>me too</em>’. No, he could <em>definitely </em>live with that. If Eddie was willing to kiss him and stay with him and rub dicks, that was already more than he ever thought he’d get. It would have been nice to <em>hear </em>it – no one had ever said it to Richie before, not like <em>that</em>, not the<em> in love </em>kind of ‘<em>I love you</em>’ - but Richie supposed if he made it this long without hearing it, he’d survive.</p>
<p>Eddie glanced over his left shoulder to check his blind spot as he merged onto the freeway and by the time he had successfully steered them into the carpool lane, he stole another peek at Richie. Richie still had <em>no </em>fucking clue what his face was doing - he was practically wedged into the corner of his seat so he could fully stare at Eddie – but whatever expression Eddie saw dropped the smile right off his face.</p>
<p>“Shit, Richie, I was just teasing,” Eddie hurriedly explained. Then, eyes fucking black hole dark and burning, he said, “It mean’s ‘<em>I love you, too</em>’,” without compunction or an ounce of doubt.</p>
<p>A gasp was punched out of Richie’s chest like he’d been hit in the stomach and for an alarmingly long minute, Richie’s brain was nothing but confetti cannons, glitter bombs, and white noise.</p>
<p>Before Richie’s mind fully settled into something a little less messy, Eddie reached across the center console and took Richie’s hand in his, pulling it towards him. Richie watched mystified as Eddie pressed a kiss to the back of it before Eddie placed it firmly on his thigh.</p>
<p>No one had <em>ever </em>kissed Richie’s hand before or done anything so gently affectionate or – dare he fucking think it - <em>romantic </em>and Richie’s soul promptly flew out his nose and ascended to heaven.</p>
<p>“I love you, Rich,” Eddie repeated again as if Richie wasn’t already brain-dead, stealing another glance away from the road to shoot Richie with the full force of his doe-eyes. Richie promptly melted into goo.</p>
<p>Then Eddie patted Richie’s hand once in an unspoken command that Richie keep it there on his thigh before he returned his own to the optimal ten-and-two driving position on the steering wheel. “I also fucking hate you for making me have this conversation while I’m <em>driving</em> – do you <em>want</em> us to get in an accident, asshole? – but Richie… Come on, man.” He stole another peek at Richie. “You’ve gotta know I love you.”</p>
<p>“How would I know <em>that</em>?!” Richie squeaked, aware that his hand, where it was laying in the territory tantalizingly straddling friendly and <em>very </em>friendly on Eddie’s thigh, might actually need to be amputated if Eddie ever wanted to use his legs for anything besides getting felt up ever again.</p>
<p>“Cause you<em> always</em> know shit like that!” Eddie said, his voice raising in true Eddie fashion: sincerity muddled behind confrontation. “You knew about Ben and Bev and Mike and Bill and <em>me </em>and Bill back when we were kids. I never know what the fuck is going on - I had no fucking clue I loved you but now that you say it, it’s so fucking obvious.”</p>
<p>Richie swallowed and it felt like drinking sand. “It’s obvious?”</p>
<p>“I’m fucking obsessed with you too, okay?” Eddie admitted, genuinely shouting, and Richie was torn between weeping and bursting into hysterical laughter. “Is that what you want to hear, asshole?”</p>
<p>“<em>Yeah</em>,” Richie admitted faintly and the sharp glance Eddie cut him, the intense, too-long-for-driving-on-the-busy-101-freeway-but-also-not-nearly-long-enough-because-Richie-needed-Eddie-to-<em>always</em>-be-looking-at-him stare ended with Eddie’s stern face softening into that new smile Richie was already fucking gaga for. Richie swallowed again, heavily. “Kinda want to hear it every day for the rest of my life.”</p>
<p>Eddie’s dimple twitched. “So fucking needy.”</p>
<p>“You have no idea,” Richie promised, resisting the urge to do something stupid with the hand on Eddie’s thigh like squeeze the firm muscle there or run his fingers up the inseam of Eddie’s jeans.</p>
<p>But Eddie only scoffed. “Of course I fucking do,” he said and Richie figured he was probably right. If anyone knew Richie, it was Eddie.</p>
<p>The silence in the car was deafening then, both of them too distracted to play any music and besides, Richie was fairly sure his ears might actually be ringing from shock. In Richie’s mind, Eddie filled up the entire space – the clean smell of his soap and the heat of his body and that fucking smile – Richie was powerless to do anything but bask. Eddie was radiating happiness like a supernova and, even though Richie was still in a state of disbelief, it was impossible to doubt Eddie’s conviction.</p>
<p>Eddie <em>loved </em>Richie. He was obviously fucking giddy with it and Eddie might be an adequate liar over the phone to his mother when he was an angsty, angry teen but Richie never had trouble picking out his lies from his truths.</p>
<p>And he’d said he loved him. Loved <em>Richie</em>. In what fucking world…</p>
<p>Never in Richie’s wildest fantasies – okay maybe his <em>wildest </em>fantasies, the ones that were closer to porn because Richie had emotional issues and even his sexual fantasies heavily and explicitly featured Eddie loving him back – did Eddie return his feelings. In Richie’s most optimistically realistic fantasies, Eddie was kind and confused and gave Richie a little bit of time to prove that he could be good for him. Good <em>to </em>him. Richie didn’t let himself imagine much past that.</p>
<p>This – specifically Eddie pretty much tackling him in public with the promise of <em>more</em>, a lot more, and a very concise counter-confession - was completely past the realm of Richie’s understanding.</p>
<p>Eddie, however, went ahead and proved his eagerness by swerving through traffic like an absolute psychopath, cutting the drive from its usual thirty-ish minutes down to about seventeen by speeding excessively and without apology. Richie watched the speedometer inch past 90mph more than once, the glow in Eddie’s eye nothing short of manic as the engine purred.</p>
<p>When Eddie turned the keys after pulling into the garage with the precision of a veteran valet driver, Richie exhaled a shaky breath with his hand still clamped on Eddie’s thigh. Finally able to pull his eyes away from the windshield for longer than a fleeting glance, Eddie turned to him, fully pinning Richie with huge molten eyes, that new smile dancing around the corner of his lips, and, as if he knew what Richie was thinking, he said, “Wanna make out some more?”</p>
<p>“<em>God yes</em>,” Richie breathed, and Eddie practically lunged across the center console, dragging Richie towards him with a fist in the collar of his shirt.</p>
<p>And then Eddie <em>was </em>everywhere – his fist in Richie’s hair, his tongue in Richie’s mouth, his strong arm banded around Richie’s shoulders, holding him close. Eddie kissed like he <em>meant </em>it. Richie nearly choked himself with the seatbelt to keep up.</p>
<p>“Come on,” Eddie said, unsticking his mouth from Richie’s to pant against his lips. “Inside. Now.”</p>
<p>The huff of sound Richie managed to make was assenting.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>By the time they made it to the bedroom, Eddie was pretty sure he’d done more kissing in the last forty minutes than he had in the rest of his life combined. His tongue had, at some point, decided Richie’s mouth was a much better home for it than his own and valiantly tried to move in, even as the rest of Eddie did its best to navigate them through the living room, past the kitchen, and down the hallway.</p>
<p>As they both crashed into the bedroom and bumped clumsily into the edge of the bed, breaking apart for a moment to pant and stare at each other more than a little shocked, some far off alarm trilled belatedly in Eddie’s head.</p>
<p>‘<em>What the fuck are you doing</em>?’ it asked in a voice that was partially his own and partially his mother’s even though he had never once heard his mother swear.</p>
<p>The answer was (as he grabbed a handful of Richie’s shirt to tug him low enough to press another quick peck to his swollen lips): kissing Richie. Eddie was <em>kissing Richie</em>. His stupid, ridiculous, funny, sweet, <em>insane</em> best friend. His favorite person in the world. The man he <em>loved</em>.</p>
<p>Because yeah, in the time between Richie’s ranting outburst in Home Depot and the point where their knees collided with the mattress, Eddie had only grown more sure that the coiled band of feeling that had always tightened around his heart with literally every single stupid thing Richie ever did was love. <em>Love</em> love. Eddie <em>love </em>loved Richie with, apparently, every fucking fiber of his being and that was both a humongous surprise and the most obvious thing in the world.</p>
<p>He <em>got it </em>now.</p>
<p>He got why people in movies kissed in the rain. Why Clark in the office next to him had <em>three </em>pictures of her wife up on her desk (which Eddie had previously found excessive and borderline bragging). He got why Ben had shrugged sheepishly when Eddie asked if he and Bev were moving too fast, completely willing to agree but unable to make any move to slow things down.</p>
<p>If it had even the slightest chance of making Richie happy, Eddie would kiss him silly in any inclement weather including hail even though that definitely risked the possibility of concussion. If Richie’s mouth weren’t actively on his, he’d be fighting the temptation to call up everyone he knew just to say, ‘<em>yes, this idiot comedian with a huge forehead housing absolutely no common sense is mine, look at how fucking great he is</em>.’ Some half-crazed part of Eddie was already trying to figure out how to expedite his divorce and wondering what kind of ring Richie might like or if he could even be convinced to wear jewelry and take Eddie’s last name.</p>
<p>Or maybe Eddie should take Richie’s? Eddie Tozier? Eddie Kaspbrak-Tozier? He’d have to dedicate more brain cells to that dilemma once Richie wasn’t standing in front of him, flushed and available for more kissing, a wonderstruck gleam to his eyes that made Eddie feel like a sparking wire.</p>
<p>Richie blinked away some of the daze from his magnified stare, one shaking hand rising again to adjust his glasses back into place, and the small little grin he shot Eddie somehow completely transformed his face into something less guarded – a word Eddie wouldn’t have used to describe him until he saw what Richie looked like without that façade.</p>
<p>He looked… <em>happy</em>. Because Eddie <em>made </em>him happy. Which was absolutely insane.</p>
<p>His hands were still on Eddie, one at his bicep, a thumb brushing under the sleeve of his t-shirt to rub at bare skin (in a way that shouldn’t have been sending lightning straight to Eddie’s crotch but today was a day for new experiences, apparently) and the other holding the side of Eddie’s neck and cradling his jaw like his face was something precious.</p>
<p>“Is this happening?” Richie asked, voice quivering, and christ his unblinking gaze was just searing with intensity. Nobody on the planet ever looked at Eddie like Richie did.</p>
<p>“Do you want it to?” </p>
<p>Immediately, Richie panted, “<em>Fuck yes</em>,” a little laugh burbling out of him like he couldn’t contain his own delight. “You?”</p>
<p>“<em>Yeah</em>,” Eddie agreed. “What do you…?”</p>
<p>“<em>Anything</em>,” Richie said, pulling Eddie in for another kiss, their lips meeting in a way that was becoming familiar but was no less thrilling for it. They <em>fit together</em>. Richie’s mouth was soft and warm, the scrape of his five ‘o’clock shadow a pleasant roughness in contrast. When Richie gently bit Eddie’s lower lip, teeth scraping along sensitive skin, Eddie groaned and grabbed at Richie’s hips, pulling their bodies together to thrust against him completely unhinged. “Jesus, Eddie, I’ll do anything you want, just tell me.”</p>
<p>That idea was <em>remarkably </em>tempting but Eddie had no idea what to ask for. Richie narrowed his eyes and quirked his head in question but when he tried to pull back, Eddie fisted a hand around his belt to keep him reeled in close.</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” he admitted, feeling stupid and suddenly shy and decidedly underprepared. There were <em>a lot </em>of things he wanted to do with Richie, he realized now – perhaps that’s why thoughts of Richie kept invading his mind while he masturbated (how the <em>fuck </em>had he not put the whole <em>in love </em>thing together until now?) – but faced with having to choose, his brain short-circuited.  </p>
<p>Richie, his head ducked a bit so they could be on level while his eyes darted between Eddie’s, tucked his fingers into the waistband of Eddie’s jeans, running his fingers along the skin of Eddie’s stomach and again, his hips lurched towards Richie seemingly of their own mind.</p>
<p>“This okay?” Richie asked, voice low.</p>
<p>“<em>God yes</em>. More, Rich,” Eddie demanded, the contact frizzling his sanity to nothingness.</p>
<p>Richie’s hand stilled at the button of his jeans and roamed south over denim, cupping the hard length of Eddie through his pants. They both moaned, Richie’s arm around Eddie’s waist pulling him in close to Richie’s stupid huge body and holding him up when his knees wobbled.</p>
<p>“Still good?” Richie moronically asked and Eddie bit out, “Yes, fuck, <em>more Richie</em>,” because god, was he gonna check in every step of the way? Eddie was going to die of anticipation.</p>
<p>Then, before Eddie had properly recovered from the fucking <em>size </em>of Richie’s hand over him, the delicious pressure of his fingers feeling out the shape of Eddie’s cock through two layers of fabric, Richie was unbuttoning and unzipping his fly, weaseling his hand down Eddie’s underwear to touch him skin to skin.</p>
<p>“<em>Hng</em> –” Eddie breathed, the sound jolted out of him unexpectedly as he buried his face in Richie’s neck and bit down on the juncture where his throat met his shoulder, Richie shivering tantalizingly underneath his teeth.</p>
<p>It had been a long time since Eddie had been touched by anyone but himself or Myra who only touched him with a delicacy bordering on revulsion.</p>
<p>Richie’s grip on him was nothing like that – his hand was solid and firm and fucking <em>huge</em>, his palm bigger than Eddie’s as it wrapped around Eddie’s dick and stroked, even the dry friction fucking <em>divine</em>. Better still than the hand job (okay, nothing was better than the hand job but a close fucking second) was the noise Richie made, deep and raspy and unhinged, like touching Eddie made <em>him </em>feel good too. And in some way it must have because Eddie grew immediately aware of the hard line of Richie’s dick rhythmically pressing into his hip in rolling grinds.</p>
<p>When Richie pulled Eddie out from the confines of his underwear, they both glanced down in time to watch the red, swollen head of his cock leak a thick bead of precum. Before the usual associated mortification could set in (Myra had always told him he was so <em>messy </em>and all of Eddie’s life, ‘<em>messy</em>’ had only ever meant ‘<em>bad</em>’) Richie made a wounded noise and tightened his grip around Eddie, using the fluid to smooth his stroking while he guided Eddie back into a smoldering kiss.</p>
<p>“Holy fuck,” he gasped against Eddie’s mouth. “You’re so hot. How are you even real?”</p>
<p>Then Richie brought his big stupid hand to his face and spit directly into his palm.</p>
<p>Bizarrely, despite the fact that they were <em>in the middle of something</em>, Eddie was transported back to childhood - back to loogie competitions and being pinned under Richie’s boney body while a glob of saliva dangled threatening overhead, swinging precariously from Richie’s lips - and there was absolutely <em>no </em>reason why that would turn Eddie on even more except for some echoing anger and competitiveness and that always burning scream of ‘<em>he’s mine he’s mine this idiot’s mine</em>.’</p>
<p>“Fuck, that’s so nasty,” Eddie groaned when Richie wrapped his spit-soaked palm around his dick and tugged. Richie froze but Eddie unthinkingly curled his own hand over Richie’s and encouraged him to keep going. “No, don’t stop, that was the sexiest thing that’s ever happened to me,” he admitted, baffled by how both thoughts could be true.</p>
<p>He felt Richie smile against his temple. “Those are some real mixed messages, Eds,” Richie rumbled and god, Eddie wanted to climb him like a tree. He wrapped his free hand (the one not still covering Richie’s, keeping his fist tight around his cock) around Richie’s shoulders and dug his fingers into his hair, yanking his head back until he had better access to Richie’s neck, licking him from clavicle to adam’s apple, unbelievably shocked at his own bravery but he wanted to <em>consume</em> Richie, wanted to know every inch of him top to bottom, the salty taste of skin on his tongue so <em>real </em>Eddie was ready to combust.</p>
<p>He wasn’t alone in that apparently. The noise Richie made in response was <em>very </em>encouraging. “Never mind, you were perfectly clear,” Richie groaned, wrestling his hand back and trying to steer Eddie away from him with a grip on his hips.</p>
<p>Eddie allowed himself to be moved (deciding it would be rude to snatch Richie’s hand back and manually return it to his very insistent erection) before his calves hit the bed and he abruptly found himself sitting down.</p>
<p>“I had an idea,” Richie said with a smile before ducking in for another quick kiss. And then, practically in the time it took Eddie to blink, Richie had thrown himself onto the ground between Eddie’s spread knees and there was something about seeing him there, gazing up at Eddie (their eyes were <em>almost </em>level but Eddie had a few inches on him thanks to the box spring) like he was both scared and elated, that twisted the knot in Eddie’s stomach tighter.</p>
<p>“Let me blow you, Eds,” Richie said, fucking <em>begged</em>, and wow Eddie liked that. Eddie liked that <em>a lot</em>. “I’ll make you feel so good.”</p>
<p>“You wanna suck my dick?” Eddie repeated, dazed. No one had ever been so… <em>enthusiastic</em>. No one had ever <em>wanted </em>Eddie in his entire fucking life, not like this, but Richie radiated a lust so uninhibited Eddie felt <em>desirable</em> for the first time… ever.</p>
<p>It was a heady feeling – Eddie was drunk on Richie’s blown out gaze.</p>
<p>“Please, Eddie,” Richie urged, huge palms gently prying open Eddie’s thighs so he could better fit between them. And honestly, the begging <em>really </em>did something for Eddie. “I’ll make it good, I promise.”</p>
<p>“You fucking better,” Eddie said, mortified a moment later to have accidentally fallen back on their comfortable abrasive banter, but Richie only laughed, surprised.</p>
<p>“Is that a <em>challenge</em>? Cause I’m fucking game -”</p>
<p>Their hands tangled together to pull the layers of clothing out of the way but Eddie’s pants weren’t even properly over the curve of his ass before Richie had wrangled his dick into an acceptable position and then Eddie had to remind himself he didn’t actually have asthma because Richie’s warm, wet mouth had wrapped itself around Eddie’s cock and Eddie nearly forgot how to breathe.</p>
<p>“<em>Holy fucking shit</em>,” Eddie gasped, vision legitimately whiting out for a second. </p>
<p>And maybe Eddie wasn’t the most impartial judge of things (and he had received very few blow jobs with which to compare it to) but Richie, apparently, hadn’t been talking out of his ass when he’d joked about his skill with his mouth because Eddie very nearly came right then on the spot, roughly 0.4 seconds in.</p>
<p>Before he knew what he was doing, he fisted a hand in Richie’s hair and pulled him off, <em>significantly</em> rougher than he should have been, he realized belatedly, but Richie fucking <em>moaned</em>, eyes slipping shut behind his slightly steamy glasses.</p>
<p>“Fuck, sorry,” Eddie rasped, way too fucking overcome by Richie’s mouth which was wet and open and an inch away from the twitching head of Eddie’s cock. He forced himself to marginally loosen his hold, unable to make his fingers completely unclench the grip in Richie’s hair.</p>
<p>“It’s okay,” Richie breathed, fucking <em>licking </em>at the precum oozing out of Eddie’s dick because Eddie was still holding him at bay. “You wanna fuck my mouth, Eds? You can. You can take control.”</p>
<p>And <em>oh, holy fuck</em>.</p>
<p>“Jesus fucking shit – <em>that </em>is the sexiest thing that’s ever happened to me,” Eddie breathed, upsettingly pleased when Richie smiled broadly, his eyes squinting unevenly. “Richie, what the fuck – I think I’m gonna die.”</p>
<p>That, inexplicably, burst Richie into laughter, and Eddie would have been a lot more pissed about it if Richie didn’t look so fucking <em>happy</em>. So instead of bitching at him to get back to work, he framed Richie’s face with his hands and let himself laugh too, giddy and stupid and so in love it was dumb.</p>
<p>When Richie finally stopped laughing, his magnified eyes turned up to Eddie and there - there was that look again. The one that sizzled through Eddie like a laser beam.</p>
<p>“What?” Eddie asked, half-defensive. “What are you thinking?”</p>
<p>“That I want to get your dick back in my mouth,” Richie said with a wink, licking <em>pornographically</em> at the head of Eddie's cock like it was a popsicle – like he was showing off – like he was having <em>fun</em>. Eddie threaded his fingers back into Richie’s hair.</p>
<p>“No, when you make that face -” Eddie cut off with a gasp when Richie sucked down half the length of Eddie's shaft and hollowed his cheeks, bobbing a couple times, the heat and pressure of his mouth unlike anything Eddie had ever felt before.</p>
<p>“What face?” Richie pulled off with a slurp (that should have been disgusting except it wasn't, it was incredible) to ask.</p>
<p>“I don't know, sometimes you look at me and I just - what's that about?”</p>
<p>Richie tilted his head like an inquisitive dog. Bizarrely Eddie found himself struggling to think this grown-ass fucking forty year old with a wet fist wrapped around the base of Eddie’s cock was anything but <em>cute</em>. God – what the fuck was happening to him?</p>
<p>“Uh,” Richie chuckled and made a ‘<em>no duh</em>’ kind of face. “I look at you cause you're fucking hot, Eds.”</p>
<p>Eddie rolled his eyes but a coil of warmth unraveled in his stomach. “Suck up.”</p>
<p>Richie grinned, diving down again and <em>shit</em>, was that the back of Richie's throat he was pressing against?! “Are those directions?” he quipped, when he pulled back up with another wet pop, his voice rough.</p>
<p>Completely against his will, Eddie snorted out a slightly delayed laugh, the jerk of his badly stifled giggles thrusting him further into Richie's mouth who immediately choked. Eddie reared back, horrified. “<em>Fuck</em>, sorry!” God, he was a disaster at this. He was also still laughing at Richie's bad joke and he was beginning to wonder if he was actually delirious. “But it’s your fault for making me laugh <em>mid blow job</em>. Are you trying to give me a fucking complex?”</p>
<p>Richie leaned back and that look was on his face again. Eyes deep and endless and penetrating. “There!” Eddie snapped triumphantly. “What are you thinking <em>right now</em>?”</p>
<p>Richie blushed but his huge eyes stayed locked on Eddie. And it was still there, that look - <em>that fucking look</em> - the one that made Eddie do the craziest shit, currently kicking Eddie's heartbeat up to a gallop.</p>
<p>“I'm thinking, ‘fuck, I love you’,” Richie said, shockingly simply, earnestness bare on the features Eddie had so ardently relearned. </p>
<p>And Eddie was fucking done for. He buried his face in his hands before he came at just the sight of Richie flaying himself open or did something really stupid like start to cry.</p>
<p>“You can't say that sort of shit when my dick is two inches from your face!” Eddie insisted, gasping when Richie pumped the fist still wrapped around his cock, a long stroke that twisted a bit at the head, Richie’s hand so much bigger than his own. Fuck, was that how Richie touched <em>himself</em>? Why was that so fucking incredible to think about?</p>
<p>“Hate to break it to you, Eds,” Richie admitted around a chuckle, still working his hand, “but now that I <em>can </em>say it, I’m gonna say it all the time, no matter where your dick is. Honestly, the closer your dick is to me, the <em>more</em> I’ll say it.” Then, annoyingly, he tapped gently on the head of Eddie’s penis like it was a mic and leaned forward to speak against the frenulum, “Testing, testing, <em>I love Eddie Spaghetti</em>, one two three.”</p>
<p>“Oh my god, <em>stop</em>,” Eddie whined, flustered and struggling to strangle his laughter. It wasn’t fair that Richie could be sexy <em>and </em>goofy at the same time – that had to be some sort of crime.</p>
<p>Eddie tightened his hold on Richie’s hair and Richie hummed approvingly as Eddie manhandled him back into position, obediently scooting forward on his knees, mouth open, eyes slot closed as Eddie rolled his hips (<em>gently </em>this time), un-fucking-raveled at the feel of Richie’s soft, warm tongue against the thick vein on the bottom of his shaft.</p>
<p>“God, I like you so much it’s stupid,” Eddie gasped, high on the way Richie completely surrendered to him, moving his hand from around the base of Eddie’s dick to his thigh so could take Eddie in deeper, practically bottoming out and <em>what the actual</em> - “<em>Fuck</em>, you’re incredible –”</p>
<p>At that Richie <em>moaned</em>, the sound vibrating through Eddie’s dick and zinging straight up his spine and even though Eddie wanted this to last <em>forever</em>, he was already teetering over the edge.</p>
<p>“Oh shit, Rich, I’m gonna –” He tried to pull Richie away – Eddie wasn’t sure what the etiquette was for where he was supposed to cum but <em>in Richie’s mouth </em>sounded wrong (and also debilitating sexy) – but Richie resisted his pulling and sank even further onto Eddie’s cock, throat convulsing around him.</p>
<p>And Eddie was a goner.</p>
<p>His toes honest to god curled against the carpet, his eyes slammed closed so hard he saw stars, and still Richie’s throat worked around him, <em>swallowing</em>, and if Eddie weren’t already sure he was in the throes of the best orgasm of his entire life, the needy, panting noise Richie groaned nose deep in his pubes would have sealed the deal.</p>
<p>When his entire body finally stopped convulsing and Eddie jerked more pointedly to pull his incredibly oversensitive dick out of Richie’s mouth with a squelchy <em>pop</em> that was filthy but also weirdly hot and maybe a little hilarious, Eddie collapsed back onto the bed panting and faintly in shock.</p>
<p>“Holy shit,” he gasped, out of his mind, staring blankly at the ceiling. “You killed me, Rich. You sucked my dick so good I’m dead.”</p>
<p>Richie laughed, one of his big hands massaging Eddie’s thigh through his jeans, and when Eddie finally managed to uncross his eyes and glance down his body, it was to find Richie grinning at him between his legs.</p>
<p>“I’ll put that on your gravestone,” Richie told him, excreting joy from every pore. “Actually, I’ll put it on <em>my </em>gravestone. <em>Richard Wentworth Tozier: face-fucked a man to death</em>. Or do you think that would look better on my business cards?”</p>
<p>Eddie blinked, sluggish and giddy and overwhelmingly happy in a way that far transcended the excellent orgasm he was still recovering from. Then something clicked. “Get up here.” He made grabby hands in Richie’s direction. “Let me do you.”</p>
<p>Richie winced. “Not that I don’t appreciate the offer but…” he held up a sticky, cum-covered hand. “I already took care of it.”</p>
<p>“What?!” Eddie demanded, voice unexpectedly shrill as he jack-knifed back up to glower down at Richie. “You asshole, <em>I</em> wanted to do that.”</p>
<p>Richie tinged pink but the look on his face was unapologetic. “Eds, there was no way I was gonna last. Not with your dick in my mouth.”</p>
<p>“Maybe I wanted to put<em> your</em> dick in <em>my </em>mouth,” Eddie automatically bit back and then realized, shocking, <em>yes</em>, he <em>did </em>want to put Richie’s dick in his mouth. What a novel fucking world. He gazed pointedly down at Richie’s crotch where his fly was unzipped and flipped open to reveal his banana printed underwear but his junk had, apparently, already been put away. Eddie furiously scowled. “I didn’t even get to see your dick!”</p>
<p>Richie made a noise, a sort of choking groan, before he buried his face against Eddie’s thigh. “Dude, I think I woulda busted a nut the second you <em>looked </em>at my dick.” Richie rubbed his face harder into Eddie’s jeans, his glasses digging into Eddie’s thigh and, annoying endeared, Eddie combed his fingers through his hair. Richie melted at the touch. “I don’t know if I’ve made it clear enough but I’ve got, like, emotional issues when it comes to you.”</p>
<p>“That’s a weird way to say you love me,” Eddie laughed, scrambling backwards on the bed to grab a few tissues from his nightstand. “Hand,” he demanded, and when Richie sheepishly offered his sticky hand, Eddie meticulously wiped it clean. Then he helped heave Richie to his feet – the giant idiot groaning the whole time, his knees popping loudly because he was <em>forty </em>and he’d just spent who the fuck knows how long on them – and sent him to wash his hands.</p>
<p>While Eddie listened to the water run in the bathroom and the swishing of what he figured was probably mouthwash, Eddie tucked his dick back in his underwear and peeled out of his jeans, scooting back to lay against the pillows at the headboard.</p>
<p>The person Eddie used to be would be tempted to have a panic attack at that moment, a thought Eddie pulled up and studied with dispassionate clarity. His entire understanding of his childhood had been turned on its head, his worldview flipped drastically upside down, and even his <em>living situation</em> was suddenly, irrevocably changed.</p>
<p>Maybe it was the orgasm (which seriously, <em>best of his life</em>, what the fuck) or maybe that it was <em>Richie</em> and the way he almost always made things better but, whatever the deal was, Eddie felt more peaceful than he could ever remember feeling in his life. His chest was burning with the same <em>rightness</em> he felt with the Losers but magnified a hundred times over.</p>
<p>When Richie walked back into the room, he scanned Eddie, eyes scalding, and slid out of his own jeans, crawling up the bed with an unusually shy expression twisting his muppet features into something young and adorably vulnerable. He settled in next to Eddie, the faint smell of Listerine lingering around him, leaving a solid six inches between them.</p>
<p>“You fucking…” Eddie huffed indignantly before pointedly scooting over until they were plastered together, side by side, from shoulder to thigh. But even that wasn’t good enough so Eddie tangled their legs and their fingers together, feeling pretty self-righteous when Richie sighed contentedly once they were adequately wound up with each other and relaxed against his side.</p>
<p>“I was crazy jealous when you went out on a date,” Richie admitted, apropos of nothing, and Eddie frowned. “Or like, maybe not <em>jealous</em> but, I don’t know. Sad?”</p>
<p>Eddie opened his mouth and then closed it, a million things slotting into place in Eddie’s brain. He angled himself to better study Richie’s profile but, except for the way his freehand was fiddling with his glasses nervously, he didn’t give much away.</p>
<p>“Is that why you’ve been so fucking weird?”</p>
<p>Richie glanced up at Eddie, eyes magnified and huge, and then shrugged.</p>
<p>That… made a lot of sense. Richie was full of boundless affection until Eddie told the group chat about his date with Aaron – and that was the same day Richie got day-drunk with Bev and around the time Richie started avoiding him by waking up earlier and choosing seats as far away from Eddie as physically possible and <em>ooooooh</em>.  </p>
<p>Yeah, okay, Eddie had been pretty fucking stupid not to put that together himself.</p>
<p>And it wasn’t like Eddie <em>felt bad </em>about going out with Aaron – Richie could have said something sooner (he <em>should </em>have said something sooner, they could have been giving each other mind-shattering blow jobs for months now if he had) but Eddie was still piecing together his own narrative and so he admitted, “I asked Aaron out because I couldn’t stop thinking about kissing you.”</p>
<p>Richie choked - a snorting, unexpected noise that turned into a slightly hysterical laugh. “You were thinking about <em>kissing me</em>? Since <em>when</em>?!”</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” Eddie grumbled, fiddling with their clasped hands, stroking at the dark hair on Richie’s arm and tracing the broad, flat shape of his fingernails. Richie’s hand was bigger than Eddie’s (not insanely so, Eddie wasn’t <em>tiny </em>whatever the fuck Richie always went on about) but he was used to holding hands with women and Richie’s hand was decidedly that of a man’s.</p>
<p>Eddie was surprised how much he liked it; the sturdy shape of it, the prominent knuckles, the fine hairs on his fingers. As if reading his mind, Richie gave his hand a squeeze – a little ‘<em>I’m here</em>’ that Eddie immediately imitated.</p>
<p>“Since the hospital?” Eddie admitted eventually. “Or maybe the airport? You kissed Ben on the mouth when we said goodbye and I was <em>definitely </em>jealous about that. I kept wondering what I had to do to get you to do the same thing to me.”</p>
<p>It was Richie’s turn to gape at Eddie’s profile but Eddie carefully refused to meet his eyes because he could feel his cheeks burning apple red and was not at all pleased about it.</p>
<p>“How the <em>fuck </em>did you not know you liked me?!” Richie demanded.</p>
<p>“<em>I don’t know</em>!” Eddie snapped back, defensive. Then, because he had seen that haunted look Richie had tried and failed to mask when Eddie had stupidly teased him in the car, he made a point to correct, “And I <em>love </em>you, Richie, come on. Don’t devalue my feelings for you.”</p>
<p>After a lifetime of tussling with Richie (admittedly with a twenty year gap that, currently, felt like a brief pause between the two parts of Eddie’s life that actually mattered), being suddenly tackled wasn’t exactly a surprise. What <em>did </em>surprise Eddie was that right at the moment he would usually sneak in a good pinch as a distraction and squirm his way into the upper-hand, Richie laid his hand along Eddie’s jaw and leaned down to press their lips together.</p>
<p>Richie’s kisses so far had been gentle, <em>hesitant</em> maybe, and Eddie never liked being treated with kid gloves but he’d known (the way he always knew) that Richie’s hesitancy with Eddie wasn’t for Eddie’s sake.</p>
<p>This kiss proved that ten times over. With Richie’s weight pressing him down to the mattress and Richie’s hand cradling his jaw, thumb ever so slightly touching at the corner of Eddie’s mouth in a way that fucking set Eddie on fire, Richie poured himself into the kiss like he was overflowing.</p>
<p>His hands migrated, one holding Eddie to him by cupping the back of his neck while the other slid up Eddie’s t-shirt tracing the shape of his rib cage, leaving a trail of sparks in its wake. Delirious, Eddie practically slapped Richie’s glasses off his face and slid his foot up Richie’s leg, grinding into the weight of him, unreasonably turned on by the feeling of being pinned.</p>
<p>When Richie finally pulled away, they were both panting and Eddie was halfway to being hard again. How good was his refraction time? He hadn’t any reason to test that out before but he was suddenly very certain he and Richie would eventually measure that window down to the minute considering how badly Eddie wanted <em>everything </em>from Richie, as soon as humanly possible.</p>
<p>Which suddenly, viscerally reminded him -</p>
<p>“<em>Fuck</em>!” Eddie exclaimed, only realizing how very close he was to Richie’s face when Richie flinched back in shock.</p>
<p>“Jesus christ, what?!” Richie said, squinting down at him myopically.</p>
<p>“I should have taken you on a date first,” Eddie said, lowering his voice, gesturing emphatically with his hands in the small space between them.</p>
<p>Richie scrabbled for his discarded glasses and, once they were on again, glanced down at Eddie’s hands, frowning, and then back up to Eddie’s face. Fumblingly, he pushed his glasses up his nose and asked, “<em>What</em>?” again, more emphatically.</p>
<p>“I - I’m going to take you out on a date,” Eddie stated conclusively, already running through options in his head. There was a ramen restaurant he and Bill had gone to once, Richie would love it - probably love watching Eddie struggle to eat <em>soup </em>with fucking <em>chopsticks</em> more but Eddie could make a fool of himself if it had a decent chance of making Richie laugh. He’d do a lot of stupid things if it would make Richie laugh.</p>
<p>“Right now?” Richie asked, dazedly.</p>
<p>“<em>No</em>.” They were half naked and rolling around in bed like they were teenagers again except it was even better because all the touching meant something. Then again, maybe it meant something back then, too. Whatever the case, Eddie wasn’t in any mood to cut it short. “Unless you want to?” he amended, landing a hand on Richie’s hip and sliding it up his side, underneath his shirt. “But I was picturing later.”</p>
<p>Richie, shuddering under his touch, nodded dumbly. “Okay. And what brought this on?”</p>
<p>“I did things all out of order,” Eddie lamented. “I shoulda taken you out first. That’s what people do, right? When they’re in love? Go out on dates?” Richie was gazing at him wide eyed so he continued. “Instead we jumped straight to blow jobs and I didn’t even get to <em>see</em> your dick and I’m already messing this all up -”</p>
<p>“<em>Eds</em>,” Richie interrupted Eddie’s spiral. “I want to blow you again, <em>right now</em>. Think you can get it up?”</p>
<p>“<em>What</em>?”</p>
<p>“You want to <em>take me out</em>?”</p>
<p>“Yes?”</p>
<p>“Like on a date?”</p>
<p>“<em>Yes</em>.”</p>
<p>“<em>God</em>, that’s so fucking -”</p>
<p>Whatever it was, Eddie wouldn’t find out because Richie attacked Eddie’s mouth with his own and Eddie decided he’d rather spend his time sucking on Richie’s tongue than asking for clarification.</p>
<p>When they finally had to break apart for air, Eddie panted, “Moral of the story is:” his hips rolled up against Richie’s where he could feel the hard length of him, “I don’t just want you for your dick.”</p>
<p>“I mean how could you? You haven’t even<em> seen</em> it,” Richie teased, positively <em>glowing</em>, and Eddie decided that as much as he liked feeling Richie’s warmth and weight pressing him into the mattress, it was much more important that he clobber Richie to death. So he rolled them, grateful for his giant king bed which allowed enough space for two grown adults to wrestle, his whole body burning up when he slotted one knee between Richie’s legs, his thigh pressing into Richie’s crotch in a way that made Richie moan and writhe below him.</p>
<p>“You ready for round two?” Eddie asked, dipping down to nip at the line of skin under Richie’s jaw where his stubble tapered off. Richie made a very flattering noise in response so Eddie continued working his way down, sucking at the tender skin of his throat.</p>
<p>“Oh fuck, maybe <em>I’m </em>dead,” Richie breathed.</p>
<p>“Nope, not allowed,” Eddie asserted, pulling back to meet Richie’s eyes. They were wide and a little watery but neither of them could stop smiling.</p>
<p>Richie roughly cleared his throat. “So what’s on the docket for round two?”</p>
<p>“First off…” Eddie rolled over, just enough so he was beside Richie, leaning over him on his elbow. Richie watched him, mostly bemused until Eddie grabbed the waistband of his boxer briefs and peered inside at which point Richie yet again choked on his own spit.</p>
<p>And yup. There was Richie’s dick. Not as thick as Eddie’s but a little longer, curving towards his stomach and bobbing as if in greeting. The trail of hair under Richie’s navel (the one Eddie realized now he had always been a little obsessed with, even when they were teenagers – okay how the <em>fuck </em>had he not realized how badly he wanted Richie) led to a thatch of surprisingly neatly trimmed black hairs and Eddie was left to baffle over whether he was still discovering a whole new slew of interests or if it was just that there wasn’t a single part of Richie that didn’t inspire liquefied brain to pour out of his ears.</p>
<p>“<em>Uhhhh</em>…” Richie intoned when Eddie had gone silent for maybe just a little too long. “Everything check out down there, Dr. K?”</p>
<p>Eddie swallowed, his mouth suddenly full of saliva, not quite ready to tear his eyes away yet. He felt like a kid again, stealing peeks at Richie’s bulge almost-visible under wet tighty-whities after a swim, telling himself it was because Richie never fucking shut up about how huge his dick was and it was just normal curiosity and the faint outline of <em>something </em>definitely didn’t stir up anything in his own fucking shorts – he just liked swimming. A lot.</p>
<p>Okay, yeah, Eddie was an <em>idiot</em>.</p>
<p>“Did seeing another dude’s dick <em>break </em>you?” Richie asked, a burble of nervous laughter making his stomach and his swollen cock bounce.</p>
<p>“I think we should fuck,” Eddie’s mouth said, and he kind of wanted to slap those words back inside his mouth but he fucking <em>meant </em>them so he let the waistband of Richie’s underwear snap against his stomach and, reminding himself he was allowed to touch, traced the shape of Richie’s straining cock through the thin fabric of his underwear, glancing up to meet Richie’s bush-baby eyes. “Preferably as soon as humanly possible.”</p>
<p>Richie’s laugh this time was less nervous and more genuine. “Oh, Little Richie’s that pretty, hu-<em>nnng</em>-” Richie’s joke cut off when Eddie took a firmer grip of him and a strangled groan fell very appealingly out of his mouth instead.</p>
<p>“Please tell me you don’t actually call it ‘<em>Little Richie</em>’.”</p>
<p>“Babe,” Richie panted and Eddie felt his eyebrow lift. <em>Babe</em>. Eddie wasn’t mad at that. “You can call it whatever the fuck you like so long as you keep touching it.”</p>
<p>“I’m not <em>naming </em>your dick,” Eddie snapped, but he did slide Richie’s waistband down so he could feel the velvet smooth heat of his skin. Richie <em>shuddered </em>at his touch, a watery gasp parting his lips, and Eddie marveled at how different Richie felt in his hand. It wasn’t completely unlike masturbating – the angle was a little off and the size and shape of Richie was a slightly new heft. Most notably, the noises Richie were making were a million times better than any facet of jerking off. Eddie’s toes were curling just listening to Richie’s little panting, needy gasps.</p>
<p>And with Richie in his hand and breathing shallowly below him, Eddie felt… <em>powerful</em>… in a way he never had before.</p>
<p>Richie seemed to be enjoying his touch and, even though everything they were doing was entirely uncharted territory for Eddie, he was a lot less concerned about fucking it up than he had been when he and Myra engaged in anything sexual. Even if Richie laughed at him – which technically he had done many times already and Eddie embarrassingly kind of enjoyed because it meant they were having a good time – Eddie could just punch him on the arm and move on because that was what they did. Tease each other. And adult Richie had an uncanny sense for when his joking was pushing into dangerous territory so Eddie doubted very much he would do anything so cruel as insult Eddie for his technique or lack there-of.</p>
<p>And comparing Richie to <em>Myra </em>who, at best, was <em>willing </em>to have sex with Eddie like she was doing him some grand favor was like comparing a Tony award winning Broadway musical to a puppet show put on by someone recovering from brain trauma.</p>
<p>Which – <em>holy shit </em>– how had Eddie never asked himself this before but… was he a <em>bad lover</em>? Myra had never had an orgasm, she’d insisted she was entirely incapable of it and brushed aside Eddie’s determined efforts in the early years of their relationship to get her there and eventually he stopped trying when she only ever seemed annoyed with his attempts. Eddie had figured there was some sort of mental hang-up there because doctors insisted there was nothing physically wrong with her but maybe the problem was <em>Eddie</em>. Maybe he was <em>bad at sex</em>.</p>
<p>That was <em>unacceptable</em>. Myra had hardly been interested in sex and <em>Eddie </em>hadn’t been terribly invested in sex with her either so any failure there hadn’t registered deep enough to wound his ego but <em>Richie </em>was something else entirely. He deserved to have his mind blown and Eddie wanted to be the one doing it – the same way he wanted to be the one to make Richie laugh and smile.</p>
<p>Eddie’s grip on Richie’s dick loosened and Richie sucked in a shuddering breath.</p>
<p>“I want to fuck you,” Eddie reiterated, determination boiling under his skin.</p>
<p>“Okay?” Richie tentatively answered, clearly picking up on Eddie’s admittedly manic resolve and, not exactly cowering under it but visibly forming questions in his head.</p>
<p>So Eddie explained. “I want to make you feel good.” But that wasn’t quite right – wasn’t <em>enough</em>. “I want to make you feel so good you cry. I want to <em>ruin </em>you for everyone else.”</p>
<p>Richie <em>moaned </em>– a small noise that was absolutely incredible considering Eddie hadn’t done anything but fucking talk to him – and then he flushed, his cock jerking in Eddie’s loose grip, his adam’s apple bobbing as he audibly swallowed. And yeah, Eddie didn’t have much practical knowledge in getting a dude off (unless that dude was <em>himself </em>in which case he had a fuck-ton of experience) but he was a fast learner and good with his hands and there was very little Eddie hadn’t been able to accomplish with hard work and single-minded dedication.</p>
<p>Plus, if there was anything on earth he wanted it was this: Richie feeling loved and sated and so fucking obsessed with Eddie in every possible way that he never looked at another asshole again.</p>
<p>“I’m going to learn how to take you apart, Richie,” Eddie promised, meaning it completely and feeling more than a little insane.</p>
<p>When Richie answered, his voice cracked satisfyingly. “A-Okay with me, Spaghetti.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>phew.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0022"><h2>22. Chapter Twenty-Two</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: discussion of underage masturbation, the r-word, sex without a condom</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Richie couldn’t pin down when it happened <em>exactly</em> but he was pretty sure he’d slipped sideways through space and fallen into some kind of porn-dimension. One where Eddie said the most incredible, sexy, <em>brain melting </em>one-liners like he’d stepped out of a romance novel written exclusively to get Richie off.</p>
<p>Not that Richie was complaining but he was woefully underprepared for Eddie’s intensity – which was stupid, now that he thought about it. Eddie was intensity <em>personified</em>. And he kept telling Richie that he loved him which was doing all sorts of fucked up things to Richie’s heart which really hadn’t stopped pounding since that fateful moment in Home Depot. Which probably wasn’t good for him as, like, an old man who took less than stellar care of his body but Richie was on cloud fucking nine.</p>
<p><em>Plus</em>, Richie still hadn’t totally recovered from walking out of the bathroom to find Eddie waiting there on the bed, ready to hold hands and cuddle and roll around until they were ready to go again. It was such a radical difference from what Richie was used to (sneaky retreats after inebriated hook-ups) that he had no idea what to fucking do with himself, stuck instead waiting for the other shoe to drop.</p>
<p>“So,” Eddie said, meeting Richie’s gaze very seriously, the way he might if there were a conference table between them and they were discussing pie charts. Considering Eddie was actually pretty much lying on top of him, hand wrapped loosely around Richie’s dick like it was an Atari controller, sweat immediately pooled in Richie’s armpits and the backs of his knees in some kind of panic response. “What are the logistics of this? Walk me through it.”</p>
<p>“‘<em>It</em>’ being…”</p>
<p>“Having sex,” Eddie answered flatly and Richie tried not to black out. To stave that off, he chuckled, admittedly a little weakly. All the blood in his body was in his dick and it turned out that wasn’t conducive to laughter.</p>
<p>“Uh – assuming you want to top…?” Richie hedged and Eddie blinked at him kind of blankly which Richie decided meant yeah, Eddie probably wanted to top, it was closer to heterosexual sex which might appeal to someone who had never been, you know, <em>penetrated </em>before. “…I should prep first.” Eddie’s hand loosely stroked him, almost as if in reward for his cooperation and wow. Eddie <em>was </em>going to ruin him. He already had.</p>
<p>“Prep,” Eddie repeated seriously, frowning.</p>
<p>“Stretch myself out,” Richie explained, making a very crude gesture with two of his fingers that Eddie eyed hilariously critically. “And I should take a shower?” He added, remembering who, exactly, he was about to have sex with (<em>!!!!!!</em>) and deciding that the best way to convince Eddie to have sex with him <em>again </em>at some point in the future would be to streamline the whole process as much as possible. “Maybe do a little two in one.” Again he gestured with two fingers but this time he raised his other hand and made a tunnel, inserting his fingers into the hole.</p>
<p>Deciding he needed to get the fuck out of there before he did anything else horrific and Eddie changed his mind, Richie gave Eddie’s thigh a friendly pat and propelled himself off the bed. “So you sit tight, Eds, while I make myself –”</p>
<p>“I’ll go with,” Eddie interrupted, and Richie should have known Eddie would invite himself along the second his eyes brightened up at the word ‘<em>shower</em>’ but somehow he was still surprised.</p>
<p>Richie’s voice came out in a squeak when he dumbly intoned, “<em>Oh</em>?” but Eddie was already climbing off the bed and latching onto Richie’s hand, dragging him toward the master bathroom.</p>
<p>And sure, Richie had fingering himself open down to an art – a useful skill when most of one’s sexual partners were similarly inebriated and not often interested in investing a lot of time – but it had been a while since someone <em>watched </em>him open himself up and that it would be <em>Eddie’s </em>massive brown eyes on him while he finger-fucked himself…</p>
<p>If Richie hadn’t been fully hard before, he was rocking a fucking <em>diamond </em>in his underwear now.</p>
<p>“I <em>knew </em>you had a thing for showers,” Richie joked to keep from spontaneously combusting, following Eddie dutifully while he was in the middle of an out-of-body experience. “Still, I thought for sure you’d be quoting statistics about slipping and cracking your head open on the floor.”</p>
<p>“That’s why we sprang for slip-resistant tiles,” Eddie said smugly, pulling his shirt over his head in one smooth move that made butterflies swarm in Richie’s stomach. “And I’m not going to <em>fuck</em> you in the shower. Not yet. Not our first time, Rich.”</p>
<p>Richie swallowed. <em>First </em>time implied there would be <em>other </em>times and just. <em>Wow</em>.</p>
<p>He pushed the giddy swoop in his stomach away to simper, “Aw, Eddie-darlin’, I didn’t peg you for a romantic,” in his best southern belle Voice.</p>
<p>One perfect eyebrow lifted in obscenely sexy derision. “Romantic? Me?” Eddie gave him a flat look. “No way. But <em>you </em>are, you fucking sap, so I can fucking try.” And Eddie was staring at him with a heat that made it very hard to point out how spectacularly he had just proven himself wrong.</p>
<p>“You’ve got my number there,” Richie sighed, holding back a gasp when Eddie stripped out of his underwear and let himself into the glass shower stall like it was no big deal he was <em>naked</em>, right there, where Richie could see all of him in full, crisp detail.</p>
<p>While it was true that Richie had seen <em>most </em>of Eddie – they’d hung out in the hot tub often enough and Richie had amassed enough guilty glances to adequately have an idea of what Eddie looked like naked (minus his dick which Richie had gotten up close and personal with just a little earlier and yeah, of course it was fucking gorgeous, just like the rest of him, what the fuck) – but the difference between stolen peeks and Eddie practically <em>flaunting himself </em>while he fiddled with the shower controls was radical enough Richie wondered, briefly, if he was having a heart attack.</p>
<p>Because Eddie was hands down the most beautiful thing Richie had ever laid eyes on. Sure, Richie was absurdly biased what with the whole <em>love of his life </em>thing, but Eddie had the kind of body people carved into marble. Sturdy and casually muscular but still svelte. Richie deeply regretted he hadn’t taken up sculpting at some point in his life because the world needed a more permanent representation of Eddie so that future generations could jerk off to him.</p>
<p>When Eddie cut him one searing glance and stepped under the water falling from the huge circular shower head hanging from the ceiling (the one Richie loved because for the first time since he was fifteen, he didn’t need to duck to get his head wet), Richie’s dick throbbed so hard Richie thought it might Hulk its way right out of his underwear.</p>
<p>“You just gonna fucking watch?” Eddie asked, and Richie was pretty sure he wasn’t imagining the not-entirely-turned-off-by-that tone of Eddie’s voice but there <em>was </em>very little blood left in Richie’s brain so he might not be the best judge of that. At least the hot water gave Richie an excuse for his suddenly steamy glasses.</p>
<p>After quickly weighing a few options, Richie fished out the silicone based lube he had stashed away in his drawer under the sink and, giving himself one last bolstering glance in the mirror, slid his glasses off and shimmied out of his shirt and underwear.</p>
<p>When he let himself into the shower, he was fairly sure Eddie was ogling him which was nice and only a little terrifying but without glasses, his face had been reduced to a blur, watercolor strokes wiping away the details of his features.</p>
<p>“That you, Eds?” Richie joked, pawing at Eddie’s face like he was a blind man while he reached past him to set the lube on the shower bench. He was irrationally embarrassed to be holding onto something as crass as <em>lube </em>in Eddie’s company – which was dumb as shit because they were hopefully going to be doing things that required a lot of lube in the very near future – but unlike his fantasies, he had to live through every awkward in-between moment instead of fast forwarding through them to the sexy bits and apparently that opened up the space for teenager-ish bashfulness and overthinking.</p>
<p>“Can you even see anything?” Eddie asked, swatting away Richie’s pawing hand but crowding himself next to Richie under the stream of water.</p>
<p>Richie exaggeratedly squinted at him. “Nah, it’s fucking <em>Cops</em> in here. Currently, you’re a very sexy blur.”</p>
<p>Privately Richie thought that might be better for him, at least until he adjusted (holy<em> fuck</em> would he really have time to<em> adjust</em>) to the unfairly erotic sight of Eddie and his skin and his arms and his abs and the dark thatch of hair above his very nice looking dick.</p>
<p>Fearlessly, Eddie ran his hands up Richie’s sides, almost like he was gauging the size of him. Richie’s cock gave an interested pulse at the touch, head-butting Eddie’s hard-on, and they both looked down at where their perked anatomy strained towards each other. Richie only got an impressionistic view of their bodies lined up together which was both a relief (he didn’t want to cum too soon <em>again</em> and who knows what would set him off) and a deep disappointment (because even blurry as it was, that image was going to be burned in his mind for the rest of time and it would have been nice to see it in hi-def).</p>
<p>“Fuck,” Richie gasped. “I'm gonna have to invest in some fucking contacts, aren’t I?”</p>
<p>“I like your glasses,” Eddie said and then he groaned when Richie caught him by the hips and pulled him in for a bear hug, the feeling of all Eddie’s bare skin against Richie’s, only the warm water of the shower between them, <em>unimaginably</em> good. And unlike all the playful tussling they did in the pool, Richie was allowed to revel in it, savor the contact, run his hands down Eddie’s back and feel the shape of bones and muscles beneath his skin.</p>
<p>Plus their dicks were smushed up against each other which was just fucking grand.</p>
<p>“And <em>I</em> like seeing <em>you</em>,” Richie mumbled into Eddie’s temple, caught up in the path Eddie’s fingers were tracing over his back. Richie suspected he was lingering on the scar tissue from the whole clown-stabbing thing, the thick skin there less sensitive after being torn apart and stitched back together. Richie ducked in for a kiss, Eddie’s mouth slotting against his comfortably, the thrill of it sending a zing of electricity down Richie’s spine.</p>
<p>“Plus it would be kind of nice to just mash my face into yours and be able to see you at the same time,” Richie said when they finally broke apart, nuzzling into Eddie’s cheek like an eager dog until Eddie snorted and pushed him away.</p>
<p>“Well, when you put it that way,” Eddie said very sarcastically but a moment later he asked, “How long would it take to get contacts?” and Richie burst into laughter.</p>
<p>Despite how nicely Eddie was running his hands over Richie’s torso and petting at the matted chest hair between his pecs, he had a rigid sort of tenseness to his face and shoulders that Richie knew well because it was the same I’m-slightly-anxious-but-pretending-not-to-be tightness Eddie periodically wore since the age of seven. Considering technically <em>Richie </em>was the expert in this situation, and as he was very desperate to keep Eddie happy and loose and smiling, Richie reached for Eddie’s super nice body wash and squirted some into his hands.</p>
<p>Bizarrely, Eddie seemed surprised when Richie started lathering the soap over Eddie’s shoulders, turning him around so his back faced Richie’s front, the better to rub his thumbs into the corded muscles of Eddie’s shoulders, pinpointing the knots he knew lingered in the base of Eddie’s neck.</p>
<p>“What, too weird?” Richie hummed, pulling Eddie against him and slotting his chin over a shoulder, impressed with how brave he was when he slid his soapy hands over Eddie’s chest and stomach, his wet skin a fucking <em>dream</em>. Even better was the way Eddie didn’t jolt when Richie’s hard cock prodded at the topmost curve of his ass – in fact, he <em>leaned into it</em>. Fucking yowza. “Using a hairy comedian as a loofah wasn’t part of the shower fantasy?” Richie choked out, swallowing a guttural groan.</p>
<p>“No,” Eddie mumbled. “But it’s nice.” And he sounded angry about it – fucking <em>adorable</em> - so Richie let one soapy hand trail downward to wrap around Eddie’s dick which was visibly swollen red, even without Richie’s glasses. But Eddie’s angry looking dick matched his perpetually angry looking eyebrows and, pathetically, Richie was so endeared by that he wanted to crush Eddie in his arms until he popped like a zit.</p>
<p>“And aren’t we supposed to be doing something for you in here?” Eddie wondered aloud, full of huffy irriatation.</p>
<p>“This <em>is </em>doing something for me, Eds,” Richie insisted, rolling his hips. His dick was sandwiched between Eddie’s insanely toned, slightly soapy ass cheeks and the feeling was divine. The rolling grinds of Richie’s hips also encouraged Eddie to fuck up into his fist and in no time they were both panting.</p>
<p>“Pretty sure we’re supposed to be the other way around,” Eddie grumbled and Richie laughed against his neck where he couldn’t stop himself from sucking and biting. Eddie, who hummed in a satisfied sort of way under Richie’s touch, shockingly didn’t seem like he was complaining either even though Richie <em>definitely </em>just sucked a hickey onto his neck. He was for sure gonna get yelled at about that later but staring at the blurry purple mark and knowing <em>he’d </em>put it there was maybe the most erotic thing Richie had ever seen.</p>
<p>“Okay,” Eddie eventually gasped, literally shaking Richie off. “Quit fucking around and get to work.”</p>
<p>“<em>So bossy</em>,” Richie panted, not at all a complaint, and now that horniness had properly taken over his brain, he wasn’t even embarrassed when he somewhat distractedly soaped himself up quickly, sliding a slippery hand between his cheeks to make sure everything was up to code, his brain thoroughly stalling over the blurry sight of Eddie casually jerking himself off while he leaned against the far wall, his gaze a searing brand even if Richie couldn’t quite make out where his eyes were landing.</p>
<p>Once he rinsed the lather off, he reached for the lube and stepped out of the direct line of the shower. This was familiar at least – popping the cap of the lube and squirting a generous amount on his fingers, careful not to drip any on the floor because it would be exactly his fucking luck to slip and smash his head open on the shower bench right at the moment he was <em>finally </em>going to have sex with Eddie.</p>
<p>Deciding he may as well try to make this good for Eddie (and faintly worried looking at Eddie while he fingered himself, even if he was blind as a fucking mole rat, would set him off like a rocket) Richie turned and braced a forearm against the shower wall, widening his stance to make room for his slick fingers.</p>
<p>“<em>Show time</em>,” he muttered in a Beetlejuice Voice – one he hadn’t pulled out since he was a teenager - and thankfully Eddie huffed out a little surprised laugh.</p>
<p>Richie muffled his noise of shocked pleasure against his forearm when he circled his rim, the feeling even better when Eddie grunted somewhere behind him, a low dark masculine sound Richie had never heard him make before. “<em>Fuck</em>, you’re so sexy,” Richie grumbled, half pissed off. He wasn’t even <em>looking </em>at Eddie but he was driving him fucking crazy.</p>
<p>“<em>Me</em>?” Eddie growled confrontationally then let out a little gasping groan when Richie pressed his forehead to the cool tile wall and used the hand not currently prodding at his rim to pull an ass cheek aside, spreading himself for Eddie’s perusal. “You’re in-<em>fucking</em>-sane – shit, this is so hot, what the fuck.”</p>
<p>When Richie breached himself with the tip of one finger, he shuddered. Eddie’s gaze on him was like a laser and as his own finger pushed past the tight ring of his entrance, Richie wasn’t entirely shocked to find his knees shaking so bad he genuinely worried he wouldn’t be able to hold himself up.</p>
<p>As if reading that thought, Richie heard the soft slap of Eddie’s footsteps drawing closer to him and then two warm hands were pawing at his ass, helping spread him open, kneading and squeezing right on the border of too roughly but Richie liked the idea that Eddie couldn’t help himself.</p>
<p>“Add another finger,” Eddie said and Richie dared one glance over his shoulder – somewhat uselessly, Eddie was a blur behind him but his face was pointed downwards, watching Richie’s hand work – and helpless to do anything else, Richie obeyed. “Jesus, Rich, do you do this to yourself a lot?” Eddie asked as Richie slowly pumped his fingers, scissoring them inside himself and relishing the faint sting.</p>
<p>“Sometimes,” Richie admitted, on a sigh. Everything felt good, his dick pulsing with the kind of drawn out need Richie liked to tease himself with, but it was so much better when Eddie started sucking and biting at the skin of his shoulder. Guess Richie wasn’t the only one into the idea of leaving behind a few marks. He couldn’t be more thrilled.</p>
<p>“Have you done it since we’ve been living together?” Eddie asked, his lips ghosting along Richie’s shoulder blade.</p>
<p>“A couple times.” Richie wasn’t sure why his face felt so flushed but he thoroughly blamed it on the hot water and the steamy shower stall.</p>
<p>“Were you thinking of me?” Eddie murmured quietly, and blind as he was, Richie didn’t notice Eddie was studying his turned face until that moment when he glanced up and saw the dark saucers of his eyes pinned on him.</p>
<p>“Someone’s full of themselves,” Richie grumbled in abject mortification, hiding his face by pressing his forehead against the wall.</p>
<p>“Tell me, Rich,” Eddie whispered against the back of Richie’s neck - a flash of teeth against skin because <em>of course </em>Eddie was a biter - and then one of his hands slid around Richie’s waist to gently stroke his pulsingly hard erection and the other slid along Richie’s hand, feeling out the place Richie stretched himself open, his fingers prodding gently at Richie’s rim.</p>
<p>The pathetic keening noise Richie made echoed obscenely off the tiles but he couldn’t keep it in, not with Eddie’s fingers so close to where he wanted them.</p>
<p>“Yeah, Eds,” Richie huffed, debauched. “I’d think about you when I finger myself. Jesus christ, even the first time.”</p>
<p>Eddie pulled away and for a brief moment Richie was bereft and faintly terrified he’d answered the question wrong – maybe he should have lied? – but then he heard the snap of the lube bottle and shuddered when Eddie’s grip on his moving wrist stilled his pumping motion, gently guiding him out, leaving Richie’s hole twitching and achingly empty.</p>
<p>Then, because Richie was nothing if not his own worst enemy, he stupidly asked, “Are you sure you wanna…?”</p>
<p>“Why wouldn’t I?” Eddie demanded, and this time it was <em>his </em>fingers circling Richie’s rim and Richie had to brace both his forearms against the wall to keep from keeling over.</p>
<p>Richie’s voice cracked. “I’m just trying to make this as easy as possible for you.”</p>
<p>“What, you think I can’t handle it?” Eddie asked indignant, the tips of two slick fingers prodding into Richie, not exactly roughly but certainly without caution. It was spectacular. Eddie continued argumentatively, “I can put my fingers in your ass,” as if that was even in question.</p>
<p>“<em>Yup</em>!” Richie gasped, the sensation of someone else’s fingers – of <em>Eddie’s </em>fingers – stroking inside him borderline orgasmic. Richie spared his throbbing dick one stern, unfocused look before he closed his eyes and rolled back onto Eddie’s fingers, groaning in tandem when Eddie stifled a sound against his shoulder. “Yup, you can definitely put your fingers in my ass - consider me proven wrong.”</p>
<p>Unlike Richie, who had been pumping his fingers in and out, Eddie seemed content to slowly – excruciatingly slowly – slide two fingers into Richie and then hold them there, feeling him from the inside, spreading his fingers and rubbing Richie’s inner walls. His other arm fitted around Richie’s waist (thankfully ignoring Richie’s dick which was about to go off like a party popper if anyone even <em>thought </em>about it too hard) to hold him still as Richie instinctively tried to rock, fucking himself back on Eddie’s hand.</p>
<p>Then Eddie’s fingers shifted, rotated, prodded with renewed purpose and suddenly Richie was seeing stars.</p>
<p>“<em>Oh holy</em> –”</p>
<p>“There you go,” Eddie hummed, satisfied and smug. “I <em>told</em> you I could handle it.”</p>
<p>“You crazy fucking –”</p>
<p>“I’ve given myself prostate exams,” Eddie asserted, way too fucking full of himself. On the other hand, <em>his other hand </em>was working fucking magic inside of Richie; rubbing, occasionally slipping deeper to slide against Richie’s prostate on the out stroke, so maybe he had a right to feel so superior. “I know what I’m doing.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, sure. <em>Prostate exams</em>,” Richie grunted sarcastically, widening his stance, impressed he was able to form words at all. “Whatever you say, Doctor K.”</p>
<p>Eddie, crowding impossibly closer to Richie’s back and running his teeth along his shoulder, ignored Richie’s goading and said, smug as all fuck, “Did you say you were thinking of me <em>the first time </em>you did this to yourself?”</p>
<p>Richie’s brain, which was pretty thoroughly bloodless thanks to his cock bouncing heavily against his thigh and stomach at every brush of Eddie’s fingers, struggled to play catch up. Had Richie mentioned that? Why the fuck would Richie willingly bring up something so embarrassing?</p>
<p>Then Eddie slipped a third finger into him, the stretch sudden and bordering on too much but also <em>incredible</em>, and Richie’s mouth answered, “<em>Hnnngg</em>, yeah, Eds. <em>Shit</em> – I told you I’m a fucking wreck over you. Always have been.”</p>
<p>“How old were you?” Eddie asked and his voice was deep and low and so unimaginably sexy.</p>
<p>Richie moaned. God, he could cum like this – he never had before, not without touching his dick – but he could feel his orgasm building in his veins and tingling under his skin.</p>
<p>“Sixteen?” he hazarded a guess.</p>
<p>Sixteen and horny and bored and inventive in only the way a teenager with undiagnosed ADHD could be. They were covering ancient Rome in history class and Ben, blushing but clearly thrilled to be the one to dish out a dirty joke for once, had said something offhand about olive oil and its multitudinous uses and Richie had thought, ‘<em>wait, I have olive oil at home</em>.’ And somehow that had led to him fingering himself for the first time and thinking about buff, sweaty gladiators fighting each other and then fucking each other and then, as always happened when he was masturbating, Eddie popped up in his mind.</p>
<p>“<em>Sixteen</em>?” Eddie whispered back, shocked. Richie was very glad he couldn’t see his face. “You were fucking yourself and thinking about <em>me</em> when you were <em>sixteen</em>? That’s so –”</p>
<p>“Creepy?” Richie guessed, trying to pave over his own stupidity. “Psychotic? Maladjusted?”</p>
<p>“<em>Flattering</em>, christ, Rich.” And if Richie had space left to doubt Eddie’s sincerity, it was swallowed whole by the hard prod of Eddie’s dick against his thigh and Eddie’s arm around his waist scraping up his chest to find a nipple to pinch. “What were you imagining?”</p>
<p>Richie remembered the fantasy vividly – he blamed the clown and the strange state of the Losers’ memories for that – but no way was he getting into it now with Eddie. “I don’t know, we were gladiators or some shit.” Honestly, the aesthetic of his fantasy was way more inspired by <em>Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome</em> than anything historically accurate and yeah, Eddie definitely ravished him at the end, but he was going to keep that to himself. “There was a lot of olive oil involved.”</p>
<p>There was a pause and Richie had just long enough to think ‘<em>too weird?</em>’ before Eddie exploded with laughter; full, belly-deep booming cackles that reverberated around the tile room and mingled with the trickling patter of the shower. The fingers inside Richie stilled – or stilled as much as they could when Eddie’s whole body was shaking with the force of his glee – and Eddie plastered himself to Richie’s back in a one armed hug.</p>
<p>Between the hug and the laughter (Richie’s most favorite form of validation) he was suddenly alarmingly close to coming again but he valiantly fought himself away from that ledge.</p>
<p>“You are just –” Eddie pulled his fingers out of Richie’s ass - slowly thank fuck, that helped with the not-coming thing - and pawed at Richie until they were facing each other again. “- so fucking weird,” he huffed directly onto Richie’s face before he smashed his mouth onto Richie’s in a hard kiss.</p>
<p>It was Eddie who pushed his tongue into Richie’s mouth and dragged him back under the spray of water, running his hands over every inch of Richie he could touch and Richie followed his lead enthusiastically, sliding his hands down the corded muscles of Eddie’s biceps and grabbing two handfuls of his ass to squeeze, briefly lifting Eddie up onto his toes.</p>
<p>“Okay,” Eddie gasped when they finally pulled apart. “Bed. Now.”</p>
<p>“Ohhhh, I like it when you get all monosyllabic,” Richie teased, giddy (and wildly horny) when Eddie smacked his ass hard as he passed him on his way out of the shower stall. They toweled off quickly, the activity turning into tussling when Richie tried to scrub dry Eddie’s hair and Eddie smacked him away, twisting a towel and snapping it at Richie to hold him at bay.</p>
<p>When they were both mostly dry, Richie slid his glasses back on and was met, first thing, with that new smile lighting up Eddie’s face, the one that turned Richie’s insides to mush, and even though his glasses added a slight hindrance, he couldn’t keep himself from pulling Eddie into another long kiss, naked bodies aligning fucking <em>perfectly.</em></p>
<p>Eddie pulled away from the kiss twice, each time sucked back in like a magnet, maybe because Richie couldn’t help the little disappointed noise he’d make every time he wasn’t actively breathing Eddie’s air, but eventually Eddie found his nipple <em>again </em>and twisted it, unsticking his face from Richie’s to pout, “Are you fucking stalling or what?”</p>
<p>“Jeez, can’t a guy kiss you without getting the third degree?”</p>
<p>Eddie’s slightly pink face flushed a little darker, obviously pleased, and Richie could have died.</p>
<p>And then, he almost <em>did </em>die when he realized their Very Special Episode was about to come to screeching halt because Richie sucked a forethought.</p>
<p>“<em>Oh no</em>,” Richie said, sotto voce, and his face must have fucking dropped because immediately Eddie was on the alert.</p>
<p>“What?” he snapped, serious and concerned. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”</p>
<p>“I don’t have any condoms,” Richie muttered fatalistically. Eddie had unearthed the last box of condoms Richie had bought while living in his old apartment while they packed – the damn thing was <em>dusty</em> on top of being expired so Eddie had thrown them straight in the trash. Richie hadn’t bothered replacing them. “Fuck,” Richie hissed then desperately asked, “Do <em>you</em> have condoms?”</p>
<p>Eddie reared back scandalized. “No, I don’t have fucking <em>condoms</em>, Richie, what the fuck.”</p>
<p>“Why the fuck <em>wouldn’t </em>you? You’re the fucking boy scout!”</p>
<p>“<em>You know </em>I wasn’t a boy scout, my mom woulnd’t let me. And I was <em>married </em>dipshit. I haven’t used a condom in –” Eddie’s brow scrunched up, “- christ, nearly a decade?”</p>
<p>“Wow, raw-doggin’ the missus? Lucky lady.” Eddie gave him a Look. “Okay, <em>fuck</em>, I’ll run out real quick, okay?” The closest shop that would conceivably sell condoms was fucking <em>far </em>– living off a winding mountain pass had its perks but proximity to condoms was <em>not </em>one of them. “Just – uh – please stay attracted to me until I get back –”</p>
<p>Richie blasted out of the bathroom, targeting a pair of jeans on the floor and trying to pull them up his faintly wet legs while Eddie leaned against the doorframe amazingly nude, arms crossed, seemingly grappling between being deeply annoyed and faintly amused. But Richie had no time to appreciate Eddie or his fucking body or his perfect frowny eyebrows because somehow his pants had stopped working, refusing to pull up past his thighs.</p>
<p>“Rich,” Eddie said flatly and Richie tried to <em>will </em>time and space to bend to him – he was going to get those condoms and then he was going to come home and get fucked by Eddie and everything was going to be okay. No one was going to change their mind in the next twenty-ish minutes or lose interest or realize what a terrible mistake they were making. Eddie <em>loved </em>Richie. And that other shoe could just go fuck itself, everything was going to be <em>fine</em>.</p>
<p>“<em>Babe</em>,” Eddie said and Richie was so gutted by the pet name he toppled over. Luckily his ass landed on the bed so hopefully it looked less like he was an entire disaster and more like he had intentionally sat down. Eddie’s arms were still crossed but his face had smoothed out, the line of his mouth curling into the shape it took when he was trying not to smile. “Those are my jeans.”</p>
<p>Richie glanced down. Okay yeah, that made sense. They did seem too small. And, like, <em>nicer</em> than any jeans Richie owned. Richie dropped the waistband and kicked them off.</p>
<p>“Did you just call me <em>babe</em>?” Richie asked, breathless, because he couldn’t fucking help himself.</p>
<p>“What about it, asshole?” Eddie quipped back and that was much more in line with the feral gremlin Richie knew. “Can’t a guy call you ‘<em>babe</em>’ without getting the third degree?”</p>
<p>Richie, not knowing how to answer that in a way that would lead to <em>more </em>‘<em>babe</em>’s, might have done a pretty decent impression of a goldfish.</p>
<p>Eddie, full on smirking now, padded over to the bed, tossing the bottle of lube from the bathroom onto the sheets and standing in front of Richie who tried <em>valiantly </em>to keep his eyes on Eddie’s very nice face instead of gaping (still fishlike) at Eddie’s very nice penis which was just <em>right there </em>and still hard and just begging to be touched.</p>
<p>“Or do you like <em>sweetheart</em> better,” Eddie asked, and there was something faintly mocking in his tone but that only made it weirdly better.</p>
<p>“<em>Fuck me</em>,” Richie breathed, the air punched out of him in a gasp.</p>
<p>“I’m trying to,” Eddie quipped back, propping his fists on his hips, red erection standing proud. “And about the condom thing…”</p>
<p>Richie <em>just barely </em>held himself back from groveling at Eddie’s extended pause, bracing himself for the inevitable ‘<em>maybe we shouldn’t do this after all</em>’. Because everything so far had been way too good to be true.</p>
<p>Instead, Eddie shocked the fuck out of Richie by saying, “…I’m okay, you know, <em>without</em>.” Richie’s head snapped up so fast something in his neck hurt but the tinge of pink on Eddie’s cheeks and the way his stupid huge eyes were boring into Richie was totally worth the weird crick. “If you’re okay with it, I mean. You just got tested at your follow up appointment, I saw the fucking paperwork, and I got tested when I set up with my new doctor. We’re both clean so…”</p>
<p>Richie was speechless.</p>
<p>“… If that’s not okay we can run out together, I’m good either way,” Eddie hurried to amend, probably going off Richie’s extended silence while Richie scrambled to pull two brain cells together to form a coherent thought.</p>
<p>“You wanna raw-dog <em>me</em>?” was what, stupidly, decided to come out of his mouth.</p>
<p>Eddie huffed an exasperated laugh and kneaded his eyebrows. “<em>Yes</em>, Richie, I want to fucking raw-dog you, now can we <em>stop calling it that</em>?”</p>
<p>“Sure sure sure,” Richie rambled, nodding along like a fucking bobble head. “We can go bareback, no problem-o, Eds, whatever you fucking want.”</p>
<p>Eddie rolled his eyes but he was smiling so Richie let his attention drift down Eddie’s body since it was right there and so fucking perfect Richie’s mouth was practically watering. Richie reached out – still fucking gob smacked he was allowed to touch – and with a hand on each hip, encouraged Eddie to step closer, into the V of Richie’s parted knees.</p>
<p>Seated, Richie was eye-level with Eddie’s sternum so he pressed a kiss there, right over Eddie’s heart, and then lower, where Eddie was stabbed through in the Deadlights. But that thought was too painful to bear so Richie wrapped his arms around Eddie’s waist and sucked a bruise into Eddie’s unbelievably toned stomach, concentrating on the way Eddie’s fingers had thread themselves into his hair to stave off the moisture gathering in his eyes.</p>
<p>“I really, <em>really</em> love you, Eds,” Richie mumbled against the shower soft skin above Eddie’s navel, feeling cracked open like an egg, the gooey yolk of him dribbling all over the place. Eddie’s dick pulsed around the region of Richie’s throat, a spool of warmth uncurling in his stomach when the slick head nudged at his clavicle.</p>
<p>“I love you too, Rich,” Eddie said softly in a voice Richie didn’t hear very often, one without the bite of sarcasm or the sting of anger or the sharp edge that made Eddie his absolute favorite. But this new softness was something else entirely, blowing the smoldering embers in Richie’s stomach into a flame. “I can’t believe you never said anything before now. What the hell? How the fuck did you keep all that to yourself for so long?” And <em>there </em>was that Kaspbrak bite Richie knew and loved so well.</p>
<p>Richie nuzzled his nose into Eddie’s stomach and mumbled, “I was scared,” with way more honestly curling the edges of his tone than he meant to. He thought, briefly, that maybe Eddie wouldn’t have heard it but the fingers in his hair tightened and maneuvered him to tilt his head back and meet Eddie’s dark, wide eyed.</p>
<p>“Richie. You got detention for a month in the seventh grade for jumping on your desk and mooning Mr. Glassglow in the middle of class. God, when we were nine I came out of the pharmacy to find you running over Bowers with your bike <em>on purpose</em> and cackling like a mad man even though you knew he was going to beat the shit out of you. For fucks sake, you <em>hit an alien clown in the face with a baseball bat</em> when you were a fucking <em>child</em>. But telling me you had a crush was too scary?”</p>
<p>Richie shrugged and tried to smile but it felt wrong on his face. “The very slim chance of you liking me back wasn’t worth the possibility of losing you.” he answered, aiming for offhand but hitting way closer to painfully sincere than he meant to. He hurriedly brushed past that with, “And for the record, I mooned Mr. Glassglow cause he called you a retard in front of the class.” Eddie’s mouth popped open in surprise. “You don’t remember that part?”</p>
<p>Eddie’s face scrunched up in thought. “I remember seeing your ass in the middle of chemistry…”</p>
<p>Richie snorted. “It’s a memorable ass, isn’t it?” Richie said cockily, trying not to lose his mind when Eddie made a considering face and then nodded. Choosing to ignore that, Richie continued, “Yeah, I did it cause he was giving you shit about your homework – he always had it out for you and it made me fucking crazy.”</p>
<p>It was Eddie’s turn to be gob smacked, apparently, because his mouth moved but no sound came out.</p>
<p>“And I ran over Bowers with my bike cause I overheard him and Belch talking about how they were gonna jump you so they could steal the sodas you were buying us.” The red hot stare Eddie was leveling Richie was <em>humbling</em>, especially when Richie was naked and <em>Eddie </em>was naked and why the fuck was Richie flapping his mouth when instead they could be <em>having sex</em>?</p>
<p>Richie let his hand drift over the defined line of Eddie’s hip bone, petting through the dark hairs of his groin and smiling when Eddie hummed at the first touch of his fingers to hard, warm skin.</p>
<p>“You’d of had better odds against Henry if you waited for me,” Eddie mumbled, covering his mouth with his hand, his cheekbones tinging pink.</p>
<p>“No fucking doubt about that,” Richie easily agreed. “But your mom woulda never let you out of the house again if you came home with a black eye.”</p>
<p>Richie stroked Eddie’s dick slowly, loosely, only barely resisting the urge to duck down and use his mouth again. “And the clown?” Eddie exhaled. “If you say that was for me too I swear to god I’ll punch you in the face.”</p>
<p>Richie laughed. “The bastard <em>puked </em>on you, Eds!” Richie said, holding his hands up over face when Eddie’s fingers tightened in his hair. “Just kidding! Jesus!” With very little warning, Eddie shoved him until his back hit the mattress, pushing and nudging and rearranging Richie’s limbs until he was centered on the bed and Eddie loomed over him, nude and beautiful and flabbergasted-angry.</p>
<p>“<em>You are such a</em> –”</p>
<p>“- <em>That </em>was cause It was gonna murder Bill or whatever,” Richie hurried to interrupt before Eddie could turn purple with rage. “But, let’s be real, It woulda murdered all of us if It had the chance and both you and I were included in that so technically it wasn’t <em>not </em>for you.”</p>
<p>“You should have said something,” Eddie demanded, petulant and pissy, knocking one of Richie’s knees aside to settle between his legs which was just about a billion fantasies come true. Even more so when he pried his hands between Richie’s ass and the sheets to take two handfuls and squeeze hard like he was trying to take his anger out on Richie’s butt cheeks. “All that time, Rich. I can’t believe you kept it to yourself.”</p>
<p>“You would have taken it <em>so bad</em>,” Richie insisted, voice hitching when Eddie’s thumb swiped over his rim.</p>
<p>“I <em>would not</em>,” Eddie complained, prodding inside Richie’s stretched hole as if to prove himself.</p>
<p>“No, seriously, think about it,” Richie gasped, grinding down on Eddie’s finger and huffing in indignation when he pulled away, mollified when it was only to grab the lube and slick up his fingers again. “You couldn’t even watch Bev and Bill kiss – you gagged anytime their lips touched and that was all, you know, <em>straight </em>stuff.”</p>
<p>Eddie glared up at him but, miraculously, <em>wondrously</em>, inserted three fingers.</p>
<p>“Yeah well, you’re not Bev or Bill,” Eddie grumbled as he pressed as deeply as he could into Richie’s body, ducking to kiss Richie’s raised bent knee. Richie moaned, gut deep and suddenly overwhelmed. “And I’m not straight.”</p>
<p>“I’m not trying to be mean here, Eds.” Richie smoothed his hands up Eddie’s arms, what he could reach of him at least, and Eddie leaned in to the touch, bracing himself over Richie so he could be closer, stomachs and cocks touching. Richie pulled Eddie down for a kiss, deep and lingering, and Eddie must not have been too pissed because he soothed his tongue over Richie’s gently.</p>
<p>“You had a lot on your plate as a kid,” Richie said when they broke apart. “And I figured you needed a friend way more than you needed some obsessed weirdo.” Eddie’s eyes had a very glassy sheen to them when they met Richie’s gaze and his somewhat desperate looking frown prompted unbearable honesty.</p>
<p>“Why can’t you be both?” Eddie grumbled with a scowl and Richie snorted.</p>
<p>“I guess I just –” Embarrassingly, Richie’s voice hitched, half on a sob thick with emotion and half because Eddie had started targeting his prostate again – a confusing but not unpleasant combination of stimuli. “I just wanted to give you a safe space,” Richie quietly admitted, suddenly very close to tears. “Back then. And now. Someplace without any expectations.”</p>
<p>“You did, Rich. You are,” Eddie said, ducking to kiss Richie’s mouth and then his cheek and then his eyelids, both of them, one after the other, so tenderly a few tears did drip down Richie’s temples which was <em>the worst</em> timing. “Christ, you did Richie, you always have. I should have seen it, I should have known.”</p>
<p>Richie chuckled wetly, digging a finger under his glasses to swipe away the moisture, very aware of the place Eddie’s dick seared a hot line into his thigh and the way he was rolling his hips in time with the fingers he still had tucked inside Richie. Good to know Eddie wasn’t turned off by the water works. “I’m just a really good actor,” Richie quipped, cradling Eddie’s hips in his hands and trying not to burn under Eddie’s fierce stare.</p>
<p>“No you’re not. You bought me a fucking <em>house</em>, Rich.” And Richie might have been way more embarrassed about being found out (and so quick, too) if it weren’t for the devastatingly handsome smirk pulling at the corner of Eddie’s mouth, dimpling his scar while his eyes went liquid fire hot. “Now I’d really like to fuck you into the mattress so can we stop talking and have sex, please?”</p>
<p>“Well,” Richie panted, Eddie’s fingers inside him twisting pointedly. “Since you said ‘<em>please</em>.’”</p>
<p>Eddie, clearly having lost all his patience waiting for the go ahead, pulled his fingers out of Richie’s stretched open hole and fumbled for the lube. “You want me to turn over?” Richie asked, twisting in place, but Eddie, who was still comfortably nestled between his legs, grabbed a hip and pinned him down.</p>
<p>“No, why would I?” Richie buckled under the sincerity of Eddie’s gaze and shrugged. “I want to look at your stupid face while we have sex, Richie,” he said, like it should have been obvious, and that might have been the most romantic thing anyone had ever said to Richie. It was made all the better because Eddie’s hand was busy slicking himself up and the sight of him loosely jacking himself off over Richie’s pulsing dick was so lethal Richie got a head rush. “I <em>like </em>your stupid face. I want to see how dumb you look when you cum.”</p>
<p>Another laugh burbled out of Richie, still concerningly wet sounding, but he managed to say, “Oh it’s super dumb. Like, eyes crossed, tongue o<em>uuunnh</em> –” Richie cut off when Eddie, with absolutely no warning, guided himself to Richie’s entrance and slipped the head of his dick past the fluttering ring of muscle.</p>
<p>And Richie was <em>very </em>glad he didn’t turn over because the smug (and dare Richie think it, <em>endeared</em>) look Eddie shot down at him might have been the best thing Richie had ever seen. Especially since he had an unobstructed view of Eddie’s beautiful chest and flat stomach and the whole way-too-gorgeous Kaspbrak package. God, how was Eddie so fucking good looking?</p>
<p>Eddie grabbed the back of one of Richie’s knees, hitching his leg up, looking for a better angle, and Richie blindly reached behind him for a pillow and shoved it under his hips, the motion wiggling him back and forth while he was still speared with the tip of Eddie’s dick. They both groaned in tandem.</p>
<p>“That better be your fucking pillow,” Eddie mumbled, hitching Richie’s leg higher and rolling his hips in tiny thrusts, torturously pushing deeper millimeter by millimeter. “<em>Shit</em>, you feel good, Rich.”</p>
<p>And there was <em>no reason </em>for Eddie’s bitching to be so fucking adorable except of course that his complaints just further cemented the fact that <em>it was Eddie </em>pushing into Richie, filling him up, panting over him and starting to flush from his cheeks down to his chest. It was <em>Eddie</em>, the guy Richie had loved forever, the only person who had ever taken care of him or worried about him or <em>chosen</em> him, time and time again.</p>
<p>And oh, yeah, there were the tears.</p>
<p>Eddie, bless his goblin heart, didn’t stop rolling his hips which was good because if Eddie slowed down anymore, Richie was going to start tearing out his hair. “Does it – am I hurting you?” Eddie grunted, his beautiful face twisted up in concern.</p>
<p>“<em>No</em>,” Richie gasped, covering his face with his arms. “S’just a lot.”</p>
<p>Eddie slid deeper as his weigh shifted over Richie and then there were fingers around his wrists, prying his arms away, and Eddie was so much closer to him, leaning over him and pining his wrists next to his head. “Richie, babe,” Eddie breathed, directly against Richie’s mouth, and they both sighed when Eddie bottomed out and held himself still as they adjusted.</p>
<p>And true, it had been a while, but Richie was pretty sure sex had never felt like <em>this </em>before. Like every part of him was on the verge of exploding, not just his dick. Like his face was gonna crack from smiling too wide even as he teared up. Like he and Eddie were alone in the world and no one and nothing could touch them.</p>
<p>“You okay, sweetheart?” Eddie huffed, pressing distracted kisses to Richie’s mouth, his cheek, his chin, forehead knocking against Richie’s glasses while his hips kept deathly still.</p>
<p>“Did you – <em>sweetheart</em>?!” Richie practically yelped, a new stream of tears leaking down his temples. Eddie pulled back and took one long look, dark blown out eyes darting all over Richie’s face, before he smirked and rolled his hips, a gut-deep groan pulled out of Richie’s stomach. “Oooo-<em>oooh</em> my god, are you <em>trying </em>to make me cry mid-fuck?!”</p>
<p>“<em>No</em>,” Eddie insisted, eyebrows forced down perfectly flat as he experimentally rolled his hips again, breath punched out of Richie in a gasp. Eddie readjusted, releasing Richie’s wrists to lean back, maneuvering Richie with a grip on both his knees, canting his hips up until he slid miraculously deeper. On instinct, Richie wrapped his legs around Eddie’s waist, ankles locking together at the small of his back, and the slightly hysterical thought ‘<em>I’m never letting go Eddie has to live here inside me forever</em>’ flashed across Richie’s mind in giant letters.</p>
<p>“If I wanted to make you cry I’d point out we aren’t <em>fucking</em>.” Eddie paused and Richie’s face screwed up in confusion. “I’d tell you we’re <em>making love</em>.”</p>
<p>“Oh <em>fuck you</em>,” Richie gasped, half because he really was crying now and half because Eddie had started to move, rocking into Richie slowly with vicious intent. Eddie laughed again, a full body cackle as he tipped his head back, the line of his throat bared, and fuck, Richie loved him. He loved him so <em>so</em> much.</p>
<p>“My sweet guy,” Eddie rumbled when he finally stopped laughing, leaning forward so he could crane his neck and nibble and lick at Richie’s nipples, mouthing along Richie’s throat and collar bones. Completely tented by Eddie, Richie never wanted to be anywhere else again. “Christ, Rich, you make me fucking crazy.”</p>
<p>But Richie was beyond words, the sensation of being filled and surrounded by and <em>loved </em>by Eddie so overwhelming he was incapable of saying anything beyond his somewhat frantic chant of,  “<em>Eddie, Eddie, Eds</em>,” while he was out of his fucking gourd with emotion.</p>
<p>His hands had a mind of their own, tracing Eddie’s sides, Eddie’s arms, Eddie’s face. Richie was <em>obsessed </em>with the way Eddie’s ribs expanded under his skin as he worked himself up to a steady rhythm, the way Eddie’s ass flexed as he pumped his hips. All Richie could smell was Eddie and his nice soap and his clean sweat, all he could hear was Eddie’s muted groans, all Richie could see was Eddie. <em>Eddie Eddie Eddie</em>.</p>
<p>Richie wanted every part of him, needed to commit each breathy pant and quiet grunt to memory while he traced the place on Eddie’s cheeks where his dimples lived with out-of-his-mind devotion. He had never imagined – he <em>couldn’t </em>have imagined – the soft playful tilt of Eddie’s sporadic smile or the way his muscles shifted under his skin as his whole beautiful body moved over Richie, finding pleasure, his eyes rolling and flickering under long lashes.</p>
<p>Catching his probably comically gaping stare, Eddie quirked one perfect thick eyebrow and shifted his angle and suddenly Richie was <em>vibrating</em>, legs and hands shaking as Eddie’s dick stroked against his prostrate on every forward thrust. “That’s it,” Eddie hummed smugly when Richie made some sort of noise like he was dying. “Feel good, Rich?”</p>
<p>“<em>Hhnhg</em>,” Richie was able to answer and Eddie rumbled again with laughter.</p>
<p>Even with his glasses, Richie’s up-close view of Eddie was blurry with tears and his hopelessly smudged lenses but god, the way Eddie was looking at Richie was going to kill him. Because even though he was red cheeked and a little slack-faced with awe, eyes glassy with pleasure, he was also wearing a very familiar expression, one Richie had generously categorized as a teenager as ‘begrudgingly fond’ and had been delighted to discover, upon meeting Eddie again at forty, that he could still make that face at the worst of Richie’s antics.</p>
<p>But now Richie suddenly found himself <em>re</em>-categorizing it – fond was too small a word, Richie could see that now, he could <em>feel </em>it - and a million moments flashed through Richie’s mind of Eddie (seven years old and practically feral - thirteen, his mouth running a mile a minute - eighteen and awkward-stiff in a hand-me-down suit - <em>forty </em>and sitting a seat away at a shitty Chinese restaurant, a spark in his eyes like <em>hope</em>) looking at Richie with that knowing, pleased little glint that meant so much more than fondness.</p>
<p>“I love you, Rich,” Eddie grunted, voice harsh but very serious as Richie rolled his hips up to meet Eddie’s thrusts. “Sorry I didn’t know. Sorry I took so long.”</p>
<p>Richie wrapped his arms around Eddie, sweaty skin sticking together as he squeezed him as close as he could manage without completely disrupting their humping. He wanted to be <em>absorbed</em>, sucked under Eddie’s skin so he could live there next to his miraculously beating heart.</p>
<p>“You’re well worth the wait, Spaghetti,” Richie huffed and amazingly, <em>hilariously</em>, Eddie’s gut deep groan tapered off into a startled gasp, his hips stuttering even as he buried his teeth ferociously into the muscle were Richie’s neck met his shoulder.</p>
<p>Richie cried out, the sting of Eddie’s teeth a sharp shock - enough so it took Richie a moment to realize Eddie had just <em>cum</em>, Eddie Kaspbrak <em>came </em>inside of him - but Richie wasn’t given much time to revel in that victory because Eddie was cramming a fist between their bodies, jerking Richie off with a punishingly tight fist. It only took three pumps for Richie to follow, all the conflicting points of pain mingling with the blindingly white pleasure of the most spectacular orgasm of Richie’s life.</p>
<p>He lost some time then, all conscious thought reduced to the electric sizzle of his nerve endings and the weight of Eddie on top of him and the stars popping on the backs of his eyelids.</p>
<p>Richie had never before realized the sex he’d been having was so <em>subpar</em> because what he and Eddie had just done easily ranked #1 Copulation Of All Time and Richie (with his addictive personality and Eddie-centric obsession) knew with gut deep certainty he was going to spend <em>a lot </em>of time chasing as many repeat performances as Eddie was willing to participate in.</p>
<p>When Richie finally checked back into his body, it was to discover Eddie prone on top of him, his forehead buried in Richie’s neck, one of his hands fisted in Richie’s hair and the other held palm up very near Richie’s face, fingers glistening with cum.</p>
<p>“Did you –” Richie panted but Eddie rushed over him to snarl, “<em>It was a coincidence!</em>” in a manic sort of way, lips and teeth still pressed against Richie’s pulse point.</p>
<p>Richie grinned stupidly up at the ceiling. “I’m <em>pretty </em>sure you just –”</p>
<p>“I <em>did not</em>.”</p>
<p>“Uh, the cum in my ass says different, Eds –”</p>
<p>“<em>You’re </em>fucking <em>mistaken</em>,” Eddie insisted, his voice muffled against Richie’s throat.</p>
<p>Richie waited a beat, rubbed his hands up and down Eddie’s biceps trying to coax him into raising his face but he stayed planted against Richie’s neck, both of them groaning when Eddie’s softened dick slid out of his ass. They were sticky and sweaty and their stomachs were glued together with Richie’s cum but Richie could have happily laid there forever.</p>
<p>He waited until Eddie sighed, seemingly in relief, to sing-song, “Whatever you say… <em>Spaghetti</em>.”</p>
<p>“That was <em>totally unrelated</em>,” Eddie snapped -<em> literally</em> – his teeth clamped onto Richie’s collar bone in a quick, hard nip and Richie yelped. “I was already close and you – it wasn’t that <em>stupid nickname </em>it was the shit you said <em>before </em>that and –”</p>
<p>Finally Eddie lifted his head – his wonderful, tomato red face dominated by huge doleful eyes – and Richie couldn’t help but strain forward and mash his lips to Eddie in a fucked-out and slightly sloppy kiss. After half a second and a lengthy sigh breathed out his nose directly onto Richie’s face, Eddie kissed him back, nibbling at Richie’s bottom lip before soothing it with his tongue.</p>
<p>“I knew you loved my nicknames,” Richie chuckled when they finally split apart, Eddie looking much less embarrassed and a little more glassy-eyed.</p>
<p>“I love <em>you</em>,” Eddie grumbled, unpeeling himself from Richie’s chest and flopping down onto the bed, his head cradled in the curve of Richie’s shoulder, cupped hand still splattered with cum. “<em>Despite </em>the nicknames which are <em>entirely unrelated to</em> <em>this</em>.” Eddie’s head was downturned, studying the mess on his hand, and Richie was just trying to work up the energy to reach over for a tissue or something when Eddie grumbled, “God, I like you so much. This should be disgusting but I don’t even care.” He punctuated his point by wiping his hand on Richie’s belly.</p>
<p>Richie huffed a little annoyed sound, mostly for appearances because he was too hung up on the way Eddie kept telling him he loved him which <em>did</em> <em>not </em>diminish with repetition. If anything, he was pretty sure each ‘<em>I love you</em>’ meant more than the last.</p>
<p>“You good, Rich?” Eddie asked after a brief pause in which his sticky fingers drifted up Richie’s stomach to his chest, tugging gently at little clumps of hair in apparent fascination. When Richie didn’t immediately answer, still dazed and fucked-out and maybe only a little bit trying to figure out if this was some very immersive dream, Eddie titled his head up, dark eyes full of earnest concern and something soft and vulnerable. Whatever he saw on Richie’s face made his lips quirk up in a little smirk. “Was it as good as you pictured when you were sixteen and fingering yourself, you weird fucking pervert?”</p>
<p>Richie chuffed out a laugh that caught him by surprise. “Eddie my love,” Richie hummed, hugging Eddie closer to his chest and dropping a kiss to the crown of his hair. “You <em>came </em>when I called you Spaghetti.” Eddie groaned. “This is the best day of my life.”</p>
<p>And holy christ Richie mean that with every fucking fiber of his being.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Thanks for being patient! Had a weird few weeks so I didn't have a chance to update <i>but</i> we're back in business and have an official chapter count and we are very nearly at the end!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0023"><h2>23. Chapter Twenty-Three</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: Sonia's financial abuse</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Eddie had just had sex.</p>
<p>He had just <em>had sex</em> with Richie.</p>
<p>With <em>Richie Tozier </em>the same fucking snot faced kid he’d known since elementary school. The boy who used to draw dicks on the back of Eddie’s neck anytime he sat behind Eddie in class, the guy who’d broken his glasses during a disastrous reenactment of <em>Flashdance </em>during the senior year talent show and nearly blinded himself with the broken frames, the same man who had ripped both knees of his favorite pair of jeans the week before when he’d helped their neighbor chase down her escaped Pomeranian even though he’d come back into the house trembling and laughing and cursing small yappy dogs.</p>
<p>Eddie had just had sex with Richie Tozier and it was the best sex of his life.</p>
<p>Eddie was <em>furious</em>.           </p>
<p>Not at <em>Richie</em>. Well, not <em>entirely </em>at Richie. It was hard to be mad at him when he was lying there covered in both their cum, his face stupidly dopey anytime his eyes alighted on Eddie. He went all bashful when Eddie wiped him down with a wet washcloth and then, partially because Eddie liked that stupid look on his face so much, he cleaned Richie’s glasses with a corner of the sheets because they’d been smudged to shit by Eddie’s face while they kissed.</p>
<p>Which was something they did now. Something that was, shockingly, fan-<em>fucking</em>-tastic. Why had no one told Eddie how good kissing could be? What the fuck.</p>
<p>By the time Eddie slid Richie’s glasses back into place, Richie was back to beaming at Eddie in that youthful, completely unselfconscious way that played hacky-sack with Eddie’s heart.</p>
<p>“Hungry?” Richie asked, ass fucking naked, lounging against the pillows and grabbing blindly for his phone because his eyes were glued on Eddie like he couldn’t bear to look away. It was such an ordinary questions, radically contradicted by Richie’s nudity and the fact that he was probably leaking cum out of his ass (<em>Eddie’s</em> cum), and the undeniable truth that <em>they had just had sex </em>that Eddie didn’t know how to answer.</p>
<p>Richie nudged his glasses up his face by scrunching his nose (fucking adorable, what the fuck) and added, “Or do you wanna do that date now?”</p>
<p>And his voice was undeniably hopeful, his cheeks tinging pink, the flush traveling down his neck to his chest. The sight of it helped make up Eddie’s mind. “No,” he snapped, a little harsher than he meant to because Richie’s eyebrows did a thing. “I’m not ready for you to put on clothes yet,” he explained bluntly.</p>
<p>The phone slid out of Richie’s hand and bounced on the mattress while Richie slid his palms under his glasses to scrub at his eye sockets, probably smudging the shit out of the lenses all over again. “<em>Fuck</em>,” Richie breathed, right before tackling Eddie back into the sheets and kissing any inch of skin he could reach.</p>
<p>Eventually they ordered take-out (Eddie fetched it from the delivery guy cause Richie was still forbidden from wearing clothes) and somehow Richie talked Eddie into letting them eat it in bed, mostly by arguing the sheets were a lost cause anyways. There was something unbearably novel and <em>young </em>about eating straight out of precariously balanced to-go containers with the sheets wrapped around their waists, Richie laughing and telling bad jokes and swooping in to press curry-scented kisses to Eddie’s shoulder and jaw and mouth, seemingly as often as he thought he could get away with, sometimes with food still in his mouth which should have been disgusting and kind of was but was also so fucking endearing Eddie didn’t know what to do with himself.</p>
<p>Maybe this was something they would have done if they’d been allowed to remember each other in their college years. Eddie wanted to think so at least, and he lost himself briefly to a flash of their skinny legs tangled together in a tiny dorm bed (Richie as he was when Eddie last saw him at eighteen; all curly haired and big-mouthed and nothing but bones, Eddie lacking two decades of baggage) but the brief twinge of grief and regret over a life they’d never get together was overshadowed by the possibilities of the future they still could shape.</p>
<p>Richie also talked Eddie into listening to the podcast Mike and Bill had recorded together in Las Vegas, some investigation into a janitor-ghost who haunted middle school children (guys, seriously?). Eddie agreed, mostly because it meant he and Richie got to roll around in bed some more, but it was also nice hearing their friends voices and occasionally texting Bill to make fun of him for being so creepy and serious (his stutter was actually a lot less pronounced on the podcast and Eddie was proud of him and Mike for doing what made them happy even if they were fucking insane for trying to get mixed up in more paranormal shit and he made sure they both knew it).</p>
<p>By the time ten ‘o’clock rolled around, Richie started yawning in that jaw-cracking, deeply contagious kind of way and Eddie begrudgingly admitted they’d had a very long, eventful day. Even though Eddie didn’t want to stop <em>being </em>with Richie, half convinced if he fell asleep he’d wake up and realize everything was a dream, the way Richie pulled Eddie tighter to his chest with one huge arm was intoxicatingly comfortable.</p>
<p>Richie’s chest was unfairly molded to fit him <em>perfectly</em>, something Eddie was a little pissed to be learning about <em>now </em>when he could have been falling asleep there for months, and when he said that out loud, Richie rumbled with sleepy laughter. Eddie, his ear pressed to Richie’s chest, heard the place where that laughter lived, deep in Richie’s ribs, right next to his heart beat.</p>
<p>God, Richie was turning him into a fucking sap. Eddie leaned up to steal one last quick goodnight kiss, Richie’s lips smiling against his, and Eddie decided that he was shockingly okay with being a little sappy. Richie deserved someone fully committed to loving him and Eddie wanted, more than anything else, to be the person to give Richie everything.</p>
<p>“Goodnight, Rich,” Eddie hummed, pulling Richie’s glasses off his face before he fell asleep wearing them for the billionth time and stretching to toss them onto the nightstand.</p>
<p>“Love you, Eds,” Richie murmured directly against Eddie’s forehead, giving him one last sturdy squeeze before relaxing, comically fast, into sleep.</p>
<p>“Love you too, Rich,” Eddie mumbled into Richie’s chest hair, mostly for his own benefit because Richie was out like a light.</p>
<p>It was strange, Eddie decided, slithering his arm over Richie’s stomach to wrap him up in a hug. Richie didn’t move but he rumbled in a pleased sort of way, like a sleeping bear, and Eddie scowled to himself because it was probably the cutest thing he’d ever witnessed but that was fucking stupid.</p>
<p>It was strange how transformative love could be.</p>
<p>Eddie felt like someone different. Someone <em>human</em>. He’d let himself be driven by lust in a way he’d shied away from for the entirety of his life because he had thought losing control could only ever be a bad thing. Turned out it was spectacular – Eddie felt <em>alive</em> and in his body and almost <em>reborn</em> because every sensation was new.</p>
<p>True, Eddie was sore and tired in unfamiliar ways; not because he’d pushed himself at the gym in a carefully calculated and risk-assessed way but because watching Richie moan and fall apart underneath him made Eddie <em>unhinged</em>. And for once, Eddie didn’t feel <em>lacking</em>, like there was an empty space inside him where something was meant to fit.</p>
<p>Apparently it had been Richie missing all along. That’s why the space inside him had ached so much less the last few months but still twinged at odd moments. Because being <em>near </em>him was nice but this; having him <em>entirely</em> was even better. It had been so long since Eddie was allowed to want, to take, to be selfish, and that Richie let him do that so easily made Eddie feel batshit crazy.</p>
<p>Which wasn’t an entirely new feeling. Loving Richie had always come with a childish, insane urge to suck Richie inside of himself because he couldn’t get enough of him and bafflingly that urge <em>intensified</em> instead of letting up even though now he had more of Richie than he ever had before.</p>
<p>To soothe that strange greediness, Eddie tightened his arm around Richie’s stomach and in his sleep, Richie did the same, hugging Eddie closer against his side, pressing his cheek against the top of Eddie’s head. Eddie wanted to eat him alive.</p>
<p>Instead of doing that, he fell asleep, lulled into peacefulness by the steady beating of Richie heart.</p>
<p>              </p><hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Eddie woke up to a series of text chimes almost directly under his ear.</p>
<p>Richie had, yet again, tucked his phone underneath his pillow instead of putting it on the nightstand like a normal adult. Eddie reluctantly disentangled himself from Richie and a quick, bleary eyed glance told him something was going on in the Loser group chat. As he squinted at the screen, another obnoxiously loud chime went off but at least this time Eddie was holding the phone almost directly next to Richie’s ear so he wasn’t the only one suffering.</p>
<p>“Wha –” Richie grumbled, reaching for Eddie with his eyes still closed and pulling him closer. “’S something happening?”</p>
<p>“Gimme your fucking –” Eddie maneuvered Richie’s limp hand manually to unlock the phone with his thumbprint and then Eddie scrolled up the messages. The first text bearing that morning’s time stamp read:</p>
<p>
  <em>Bill: Uh, guys…?</em>
</p>
<p>Attached was a link to a tweet, two pictures visible in the preview.</p>
<p>“<em>Richie</em>,” Eddie said, and there must have been something in his voice because Richie jolted and blinked himself awake.</p>
<p>“Everyone okay?” he asked and fuck Eddie loved him so much he wanted to put him in a fucking headlock.</p>
<p>“Yeah, Rich, everyone’s fine. But you should probably see this.”</p>
<p>He turned the phone to Richie who squinted at it myopically before reaching for his glasses and cramming them onto his face. Once his eyes focused on the screen, Richie’s mouth opened and a strangled sounding laugh burbled out of him as he grabbed for his phone. Eddie briefly fought him over possession of it but in the end he relented, rolling over to grab his phone from the nightstand and open the link to the tweet on his own private little screen to better stare at it.</p>
<p>The tweet read ‘<em>guess @dicktozier’s coming out wasn’t a publicity stunt…</em>’ The two pictures that were attached were relatively low quality, probably taken on a phone camera a little too far away to be ideal, the second one zoomed in and even grainier but still. It was undeniably Richie and Eddie in both pictures, tangled up all over each other, leaning against the Mustang in the Home Depot parking lot, Eddie’s tongue <em>visibly</em> in Richie’s mouth, particularly in the second zoomed in picture.</p>
<p>Before he’d given it any real thought, his fingers typed out, ‘<em>what kind of asshat thinks being gay is a publicity stunt</em>?’ in the comments. Then he added, ‘<em>and only creeps take pictures of strangers kissing</em>,’ and immediately went back to studying the pictures of him and Richie making out.</p>
<p>The angle favored Richie’s face, Eddie’s back to the camera, Richie’s two huge hands fisting handfuls of Eddie’s sweater like he wanted to tear Eddie in half and crawl inside his skin. Richie’s eyebrows were tented in a way that made him look pleading and desperate and utterly enraptured by the kiss, face flushed and vulnerable while he practically melted into Eddie’s hold.</p>
<p>A pulse of heat skewered Eddie down the middle and his bare dick thickened up where it was pinned between the mattress and his body. Eddie saved the pictures to his camera roll before he could think too hard about why.</p>
<p>Maybe because he was suddenly fiercely turned on, it took Eddie a minute to realize Richie was being uncustomarily quiet and sure enough, Richie was pale as he gawked at his own phone.</p>
<p>“Fuck, Eds, I’m so sorry –” Richie started but Eddie cut him off.</p>
<p>“What for? Haven’t we already had this conversation?”</p>
<p>Richie finally glanced up and met Eddie’s eyes, freezing for a moment before he blinked, long and heavy, his gaze darting around Eddie’s features. “Maybe you <em>didn’t</em> want twitter to know you’d let me slobber all over you?” he said slowly, like he was disabling a bomb.</p>
<p>Eddie huffed an aggravated noise and rolled, throwing one leg over Richie’s thigh so his stiffening dick could press against Richie’s hip. Richie gasped, gratifyingly. “If I cared about that, I wouldn’t have fucking kissed you in a Home Depot parking lot.”</p>
<p>Eddie <em>watched </em>Richie’s pupils dilate, his hand dropping his phone to dip under the sheets, sliding along Eddie’s skin from rib cage to knee, grabbing hold of Eddie’s thigh to hitch him closer. Richie’s phone had landed screen-up on the pillow, the picture of the two of them kissing still there, and Eddie sucked his bottom lip into his mouth while he rolled his hips against Richie in a slow grind.</p>
<p>“<em>Oh my god you’re into it</em>,” Richie breathed, the tension draining out of him as he turned so that their cocks were lined up next to each other, heads bumping together, Richie’s dick growing harder with every jerk of his hips.</p>
<p>“Of course I’m fucking into it, asshole. I’m into <em>you</em>.”</p>
<p>Richie groaned like Eddie had said something unimaginably sexy instead of simply stating facts, his eyes fluttering shut as a he fumbled a hand between them and wrapped his huge fist as best he could around <em>both </em>their dicks. Eddie wouldn’t say it was a transformative experience but it wasn’t far from that.</p>
<p>“Lube,” Eddie gasped in demand and a bright look crossed Richie’s face – a fleeting smile that was way too sweet considering Eddie had just grunted the word ‘<em>lube</em>’ at him like a fucking caveman – and he briefly turned away to fumble around on the nightstand. “Fucking <em>hurry</em>,” Eddie bit out when Richie was away for too long and Richie started laughing which, yes, was very nice, but also Eddie wanted Richie’s hand back on his dick, like, <em>yesterday</em>.</p>
<p>“God, it’s like you were made in a lab,” Richie whined once he was turned back around, cold, lubed up hand wrapping back around both of them. They hissed in unison.</p>
<p>“Fucking <em>what</em> did you just call me?” Eddie grunted, grabbing hold of Richie’s hips so he had better leverage to rock up and fuck into Richie’s fist. Richie’s dick slid against the bottom of his, pressing along the thick vein on the underside of Eddie’s cock, a delicious line of friction. A brief glance down to where both cockheads nudged in and out of Richie’s curled palm very nearly unraveled Eddie so he pointedly turned his attention back to Richie’s face because he sure as shit wasn’t going to be the one to cum first <em>again</em>.</p>
<p>“I’m saying you’re perfect, Eds,” Richie groaned, his own head tilted down to watch himself work. Richie’s eyes on their dicks unfurled a heady coil of heat in Eddie’s stomach and he moaned inadvertently. “Made in a lab –” Richie gasped when Eddie wrangled his own hand into the mix, closing the circle where Richie’s fingers couldn’t meet, “- invented by scientists specifically to make me fucking crazy.”</p>
<p>Eddie <em>did not </em>flush at the strange compliment. Because that would be stupid and embarrassing. Instead, he smashed his face into Richie’s in a very aggressive kiss, not even registering (until his tongue was inside Richie’s mouth trying to lick his back teeth) that neither of them had brushed their teeth and he should probably be grossed out but it was too late for that and in a surprisingly quick span of time, their mouths tastes less like morning breath and more like each other.</p>
<p>When Eddie finally pulled away to give Richie a chance to catch his breath, Richie panted, “So you aren’t mad? About the pictures?”</p>
<p>Eddie, who had almost entirely forgotten what started this, huffed, “The pictures are fucking <em>hot</em>, Rich.”</p>
<p>“People will know,” Richie said breathily and, despite the massive distraction that was both Richie and him working together to strip their dicks, Eddie didn’t miss the extremely young and scared and faintly <em>hopeful </em>glint to Richie’s magnified eyes. “Our friends will know. That we…”</p>
<p>He didn’t finish the thought but Eddie understood.</p>
<p>“I want <em>everyone </em>to fucking know,” he growled, the hand not working the both of them over in tandem latching onto Richie’s ass and squeezing.</p>
<p>That was how Richie came (first, thank god, Eddie <em>was not </em>going to last much longer) and because Eddie’s face wasn’t buried in his neck this time, he got to watch Richie’s expression morph into pleasure; the way his mouth opened in a very appealing ‘o’, the way his eyes squinted closed, his lashes slightly watery, the soft little “<em>uh</em>,” that he gasped out.</p>
<p>The whisper quiet, “<em>Eds</em>,” he sighed reverentially and the extra wetness of Richie’s fist pushed Eddie right over the edge after him, and stupidly, as his vision whited out around the edges, he was momentarily teleported to the quarry, held in that moment of free-fall after launching himself over the cliff right on Richie’s heels.</p>
<p>When his mind stopped being made of fuzz, Eddie’s first thought was: fuck, they were going to have to invest in a lot more sheets. Two dudes meant twice the mess and next time Eddie was going to be more conscious of <em>not </em>freely jizzing all over their bedding, but it was also kind of freeing to not be so fucking <em>worried </em>about that shit for once. About where he would cum or who it would disgust or how much he’d be chided if he accidentally got any on something besides himself or a perfectly maneuvered tissue.</p>
<p>Richie obviously didn’t give a fuck because, once he very gently released the grip he still had on both their cocks and apathetically wiped his hand on the sheet (Eddie made a noise of protest but he was too tired to actually complain), he pulled Eddie into his arms, kindly rolling him over his body and away from the massive wet stain in the middle of the bed, still clinging onto Eddie like the world’s hugest koala.</p>
<p>“So I can talk about it?” Richie asked, still breathy and panting, his face pressed into Eddie’s hair. “I can talk about…… <em>us</em>???”</p>
<p>Eddie really liked the sound of that ‘us’ even though Richie had said it with extreme, borderline-offensive skepticism.</p>
<p>“Yeah, dude,” Eddie said, burying his face in Richie’s chest hair and resisting the urge to bite his nipple. “What, did you think we were gonna keep this secret?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know!” Richie sounded on the edge of panic so Eddie craned his neck up to meet his eyes.</p>
<p>“You’re <em>out</em>, Richie,” Eddie reminded him, not unkindly. “You don’t have to live your fucking life on the DL anymore.”</p>
<p>“I don’t – wait, did you just say ‘the DL’ <em>unironically</em> in a sentence?” Eddie refused to acknowledge that with any kind of answer so Richie continued, “But like, are you sure you’re okay with me talking about… us?” The pause before ‘us’ had, at least, shrank down to something more acceptable. “Cause I’ve gotta be honest dude, I’ve got, like, <em>whole sets </em>written about you. <em>IN MY HEAD</em>,” he rushed to add in a way that <em>definitely </em>sounded like a lie. “I’m not filling notebooks with love confessions or whatever.” And wow, judging by Richie’s deer-in-the-headlights look, he fucking might <em>actually </em>have notebooks packed with Eddie-related material.</p>
<p>Eddie, perversely, found himself extremely flattered by that. “How fucking much of it is making fun of me?”</p>
<p>“Percentage wise?” Richie smirked, a small, very happy thing completely devoid of the hard edge the corner of his mouth used to hold when he made that face. “It’s, like, 20% making fun and 80% hopeless obsession. It’s <em>a lot </em>more embarrassing for me, trust me.”</p>
<p>And Eddie did trust him. Wholeheartedly. It was kind of ridiculous.</p>
<p>“I hear it first,” Eddie said, and judging by the widening of Richie’s already massively magnified eyes, Richie hadn’t expected Eddie to take him seriously. “And I hold veto power. But I don’t <em>hate </em>that you filled your diary with serial killer-esque rants about me. You fucking lunatic. Is half of it just our initials circled in hearts?”</p>
<p>Which, wait a second, <em>that</em> mental image shook something loose in Eddie’s head. Something Richie had said yesterday during his insane rambling love confession. And suddenly Eddie had an idea.</p>
<p>“<em>Noooooo</em>,” Richie sing-songed playfully so Eddie knew he was back to joking around. “And I’m not <em>Ben</em>. It’s not fucking <em>poetry</em>. But, I dunno, you’re supposed to write what you know and Spaghetti –”</p>
<p>“<em>Don’t</em>,” Eddie insisted, flushing.</p>
<p>“- I know <em>you</em>.”</p>
<p>Eddie groaned, long and deep enough that Richie started to laugh. “Yeah, I guess you do, asshole.”</p>
<p>They showered together, a long, luxurious affair where Richie volunteered to wash Eddie’s hair which should have been infantilizing but in actuality felt amazing. Eddie briefly marveled that, despite how many people in his life insisted he needed taking care of, none of that care included anything as nice as gentle fingers against his scalp or solid pressure along his shoulders. Richie treated Eddie’s body like something precious but not fragile, exploring and soothing and stroking every inch of it with broad hands, and Eddie rushed to return the favor, bowled over by the newness of being loved in a way that wasn’t restricting.</p>
<p>They only barely touched each other’s dicks, mostly because they were, despite their best efforts, <em>actual forty year old men </em>and they needed time to recover, but Eddie had a feeling they’d find another way to fool around before the end of the day and let himself enjoy the anticipation revving up for later.</p>
<p>When they reluctantly dressed in the barest minimum of required clothing – Eddie consented to underwear but when Richie tried to pull on a t-shirt, Eddie smacked it out of his hands which had earned a solid two minutes of laughter – they noticed that their abandoned phones had been blowing up, Richie’s in particular which had half a dozen missed calls from Steve and three missed calls from Bev.</p>
<p>Eddie discovered he too had a few missed calls, all from Bill, but Eddie let Richie handle the Loser group chat (which had devolved into chaos in the last hour) while he made coffee and breakfast for the both of them.</p>
<p>Eddie re-caught up with the messages and watched new ones stream in as he cut up a banana to split between his oatmeal and Richie’s Cheerios.</p>
<p>‘<em>Uh, guys…?</em>’ Bill had started everything off with, followed by the tweeted photographs.</p>
<p>
  <em>Bev: HOLY SHIT</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Ben: Oh!</em>
</p>
<p><em>Mike: </em>😏</p>
<p>
  <em>Bill: Mike?!</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Bev: ITS HAPPENING!!!</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Bill: What EXACTLY is happening?!</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Ben: Wow, suddenly a lot of things make sense…</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Bill: HOW does this make sense???</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Bev: its called love bill</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Bev: get wth the picture(s)</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Ben: Shouldn’t we wait until Richie and Eddie weigh in before labeling anything?</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Bill: Eddie’s not answering my calls…</em>
</p>
<p><em>Mike: Judging from that </em>💋<em> they’re probably busy </em>😉</p>
<p>
  <em>Bill: Busy doing WHAT???!!</em>
</p>
<p><em>Ben: </em>😳 😳 😳</p>
<p><em>Mike:</em> 😐</p>
<p><em>Bev: </em>👉👌</p>
<p><em>Mike: </em>🍆💦</p>
<p>It was at that point Richie had joined the conversation.</p>
<p><em>Richie: </em>╰⋃╯❤️╰⋃╯</p>
<p>Eddie snorted which made Richie grin radiantly as he accepted the bowl of fruit and cereal from Eddie with rosy cheeks. They sat side by side in the high counter chairs, both their phones open as they chewed, Eddie’s ankle locked around Richie’s.</p>
<p>
  <em>Mike: There he is!</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Ben: Hey champ! </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Bev: did u cum urself to death?</em>
</p>
<p>Richie shot a smirk at Eddie that he couldn’t help but return.</p>
<p>
  <em>Richie: not yet</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Bev: …did Eddie???</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Richie: nope still alive + kicking + BITING </em>
</p>
<p>Eddie nearly snorted oatmeal out his nose when he read that. “<em>Dickhead</em>!” he snapped, elbowing Richie half-heartedly.</p>
<p>“Not a complaint!” Richie yelped, holding his hands up in surrender even as another message blipped onto Eddie’s screen and Richie’s smile turned wicked.</p>
<p>
  <em>Richie: who knew Eds wld be a biter?</em>
</p>
<p><em>Mike: </em>🙋🏿♂️</p>
<p><em>Ben: </em>😳 ✋</p>
<p>
  <em>Bev: everyone.</em>
</p>
<p>Richie cackled at Eddie’s withering glare.</p>
<p>
  <em>Bill: WHAT IS HAPPENING.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Bev: everyone except Bill.*</em>
</p>
<p>Eddie’s phone started ringing, buzzing itself across the counter.</p>
<p>“Bill?” Richie asked sounding unexpectedly nervous, eyes trained on Eddie’s phone as he heavily swallowed his last bite of Cheerios.</p>
<p>Eddie sighed. “I better take this or Bill’s gonna lose his mind.”</p>
<p>“Okay?” Richie said, very uneasily. “Uhhhh, I love you?”</p>
<p>“Love you too, jerk,” Eddie said decisively, snagging his phone and his cup of coffee and leaning over to press a kiss on Richie’s temple. He found an abandoned sweater on the back of his chair and pulled it on before he stepped out into the December California chill in nothing but his underwear. It was one of Richie’s. Eddie surreptitiously sniffed the collar and pointedly scowled when he realized Richie had been watching him the whole time but he didn’t look smug – in fact, his face was pinched in a moue the exact opposite of smug, the lines in his brow making him look mystified and faintly anxious.</p>
<p>Eddie’s phone had stopped ringing by the time he closed the door behind him so he dialed Bill back who picked up after the first ring. “Eddie, <em>jesus christ</em> –”</p>
<p>“Hey Bill,” Eddie answered automatically, sipping from his coffee bracingly. The cement patio was cold under his bare feet but it was a refreshing kind of chill. Grounding. Proof he wasn’t dreaming which, bizarrely, he still occasionally had to reevaluate.</p>
<p>“I’ve buh-been so worried,” Bill rushed on and Eddie’s forehead scrunched up.</p>
<p>“We’re fine,” Eddie reassured him. “Fucking rude of whoever took that picture, though. And I guess Richie might be in trouble with his manager but he’s <em>always </em>arguing with Steve so that’s not anything new –”</p>
<p>“Eddie,” Bill cut him short. “That’s not - since <em>when </em>do you and Richie <em>k-k</em>-<em>kiss</em>?”</p>
<p>“Uh, since yesterday,” Eddie answered with an eye roll.</p>
<p>“Right,” Bill said, a little faintly, and Eddie didn’t need to see him to know he was scrubbing his hand through his hair over-dramatically. “R-right, since yesterday. Okay. And <em>wuh-why </em>did you kiss Richie?”</p>
<p>“Because I wanted to,” Eddie explained slowly, condescendingly, but trust Bill to ignore that kind of subtext.</p>
<p>“Okay. Okay, you wanted to, that’s – that’s g-good.” Eddie made a face to himself, glancing over his shoulder through the glass door. Richie was still seated at the kitchen counter, his phone cradled in his hands like he was texting but his eyes were locked on Eddie. When their gaze met he jerked in surprise and guiltily turned away from the window.</p>
<p>Eddie suppressed a smile while Bill continued speaking in his ear. “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t… puh-p-pressured into anything,” Bill grit out, clearly uncomfortable but doing his honor-bound-big-brother thing the same way he’d cornered Eddie after the summer of ‘89 and very seriously asked why Eddie had stopped taking all his ‘medications’ and whether he was going to be okay without them.</p>
<p>Eddie, thinking about the enthusiastic shared hand job from the morning and Richie’s stupid-wonderful face slack-jawed with awe, scoffed. “I wasn’t pressured into anything, Bill, what the fuck?”</p>
<p>“It’s just... R-Richie has always had a way of… talking you into th-things,” Bill continued and okay <em>now </em>Eddie was a little pissed.</p>
<p>“You think Richie <em>talked me into </em>dating him?”</p>
<p>“Wait. You’re <em>d-dating</em>?” Bill asked, shocked. “<em>You</em>? And <em>R-Richie</em>?”</p>
<p>Eddie had thought that should be pretty obvious but, in retrospect, neither he nor Richie had technically specified that to the group. So he clarified. “Yes, <em>me and Richie</em>. We’re a fucking <em>us </em>now, bro.”</p>
<p>Bill was quiet for a long moment on the other end of the line. “And that’s - y-you’re sure it… <em>who’s</em> idea exactly -”</p>
<p>Eddie rolled his eyes and then, realizing Bill couldn’t see his look of intense disdain, made a loud noise of aggravation into his phone. “Both of ours, Bill, what the <em>actual fuck</em>?”</p>
<p>“<em>Is it serious</em>?” Bill asked with such awed horror, Eddie couldn’t help laughing.</p>
<p>“Yes, it’s serious! I have <em>been inside him</em>, Bill.”</p>
<p>The choked noise Bill made at that was deeply satisfying. “Wha - <em>Richie</em>?”</p>
<p>“No, the fucking Cookie Monster. <em>Yes, Richie</em>, jesus fuck.”</p>
<p>“But he’s so - and <em>y-you’re</em> so -”</p>
<p>“If you make a single fucking comment about my height I will <em>bury you</em>. You are <em>two inches shorter than me</em>, Bill!” Eddie shouted, realizing how loud he’d gotten a moment later when his own voice echoed back at him from the rocky cliff behind their house.</p>
<p>“I just –” Bill struggled with, “I mean that <em>kind of </em>makes sense but -”</p>
<p>“What, you think cause Richie’s <em>bigger </em>than me he automatically tops? That’s some real outdated misconceptions about sex, bro.”</p>
<p>“It’s n-not <em>just </em>the size th-thing,” Bill stammered but Eddie interrupted.</p>
<p>“And you know what? Maybe we’ll switch next time!” Eddie had said it impulsively, wound up tight in a don’t-tell-me-how-to-live-my-life spiral, but now that he was imagining it, it didn’t sound like such a bad idea. “Richie seemed like he had a good fucking time, maybe I want to try it too.”</p>
<p>Bill choked out, “<em>Nuh-n-next time</em>?”</p>
<p>“Is that <em>okay </em>with you, Bill? Do I have your <em>permission</em> to have <em>sex </em>with <em>Richie</em>?”</p>
<p>“You d-don’t need – <em>Eddie</em>,” Bill pleaded, really actually pleaded, and Eddie reeled himself in. So maybe he was a little defensive when it came to Richie, more so than ever now, probably, which shit, yeah, could turn into a problem. But Bill was trying his best to look out for everyone (as Bill <em>always </em>did) and Eddie knew he in particular had at some point become Bill’s surrogate little brother – a fact that normally brewed a happy kind of warmth in his chest that currently felt closer to heartburn. “I’m s-sorry, Eddie, I didn’t muh-mean anything by it. I just wanted to make sure –”</p>
<p>He was interrupted by Mike’s voice, far away and almost unintelligible over the phone but Eddie heard, “<em>Bill, what did I tell you </em>–”</p>
<p>“Is that Mike? Put him on speaker,” Eddie demanded and Bill sighed heavily but the air quality on Bill’s end shifted and when he spoke next, he sounded less crisp but still present.</p>
<p>“I just wanted to be sure you were happy,” Bill said in that knuckled down, serious, I’m-not-gonna-let-you-make-me-feel-bad-about-caring way he pulled out so often as a kid.</p>
<p>“<em>Bill</em>,” Mike said warningly, voice much closer than the last time he spoke.</p>
<p>“They fuh-fight <em>all the time</em>!” Bill insisted in a voice that suggested this was not the first time he’d made this argument.</p>
<p>“They <em>bicker</em>,” Mike corrected. “It’s one of their love languages.”</p>
<p>“And Eddie <em>just </em>got out of a bad relationship –” Bill rushed on but Eddie cut him off.</p>
<p>“So did Bev but you weren’t this worried about her when she shacked up with Ben.”</p>
<p>“<em>B-Bev</em> would kick my ass –”</p>
<p>“And you think I <em>won’t</em>?”</p>
<p>“Hey Eddie,” Mike interrupted, tone jovial. “Congratulations on the public kissing. Is Richie there too?”</p>
<p>“No, just me,” Eddie answered, stealing another long glance through the window to Richie’s bare hunched shoulders, the long line of his scar stark against his pale skin in the grey light of morning. Eddie thought, a little dreamily, that Richie was surprisingly gorgeous like that, even with his smiling cactus boxer briefs and bed head (maybe <em>especially </em>because of his smiling cactus boxer briefs and bed head), and Eddie mentally calculated how much longer he needed to stay on the phone before he could go inside and put his lips down the line of that scar just to see what kind of noises Richie would make.</p>
<p>“Good,” Mike interrupted Eddie’s daydream. “Because Richie would be pissed if he knew I was bringing this up,” Mike said, his voice coming through clearer like he had taken the phone from Bill to hold it closer to his mouth. “Especially in front of Bill.”</p>
<p>Bill made a little indignant noise.</p>
<p>“Eddie, do you remember what Richie gave you the morning you left Derry for NYU?” Mike said, speaking over Bill’s nonverbal protest. “Your going away present?”</p>
<p>Eddie frowned.</p>
<p>He remembered standing outside the bus station with Mike and Richie in the early morning light of late summer. He was wearing a shirt he’d stolen from Richie; his favorite <em>The Cure </em>t-shirt his sister had sent him after a concert in Chicago, but Eddie had zipped his hoodie up over it in the hopes Richie wouldn’t notice and demand he give it back. Richie had eyed his chest occasionally but he never brought it up.</p>
<p>Leaving the house had been a whole ordeal and even though Richie and Mike had arrived early, the screaming match with Eddie’s mother that followed him all the way to Richie’s car where she’d <em>physically </em>tried to block them from backing out of the driveway had delayed the drive up to the Bangor Greyhound station. By the time they got there, they barely had a few minutes to cram Eddie’s two bags into the underbelly of the bus and make very brief goodbyes, Eddie still shaky and nauseous with adrenaline from the fight with his mother.</p>
<p>Hurriedly he’d hugged Mike and thanked him, for the millionth time, for all his help with college applications and federal aid forms and for collecting all the mail he couldn’t risk his mother finding. If it weren’t for Mike, Eddie would never have made it into NYU – would never have even thought to apply – and he was going to think of Mike every fucking day while he sat through classes and walked around New York wild and free, his future full of possibilities he’d never see stuck in Derry under his mother’s thumb.</p>
<p>By the time Eddie pulled Richie into his arms, squeezing him so tight he hoped they’d forge themselves together like two pieces of clay, the bus driver was already calling everyone aboard and Eddie didn’t have nearly enough time to soothe Richie who was leaking a steady stream of tears and trying <em>so hard </em>to laugh and smile through it, ruffling Eddie’s hair just to piss him off and (with the retrospect afforded to Eddie now he knew the full picture) wearing his very broken heart on his sleeve.</p>
<p>“Made you something,” Richie said, wiping his nose on the back of his wrist and fishing a cassette case out of his pocket.</p>
<p>“Not another mix tape,” Eddie groaned, but it was all for show. Richie’s mix tapes were unrivaled – he always knew exactly what songs were Eddie’s favorites and which ones he’d never heard before but wound up loving best.</p>
<p>“Just the hits this time, Eds,” Richie promised with a wink, sliding the tape case and a folded piece of paper into Eddie’s sweater pocket. Eddie’s fingers chased it, gripping the solid shape of it like a lifeline.</p>
<p>Then, with one last slightly teary smile, he turned and climbed the steps onto the bus, moments later watching Mike and Richie wave goodbye to him through the window as the bus pulled away.</p>
<p>Knowing what he knew now, Eddie hated that version of himself; the one who didn’t give into the strange urge to press a kiss to Richie’s cheek before he left. The one who didn’t have the guts to drag Richie onto the bus with him. The one who pulled out the note Richie had tucked into his pocket, ‘<em>REMEMBER ME</em>’ written in bold letters above a familiar phone number, and scoffed in a fond kind of way, rolling his eyes because he’d had Richie’s phone number memorized since the fifth grade. He wasn’t about to <em>forget </em>him.</p>
<p>He shoved the note into his jeans pocket and resumed his vigil of watching Maine flash by until it disappeared.</p>
<p>Eddie didn’t touch the cassette case until he <em>had </em>forgotten, somewhere in New Hampshire when he finally dug out the beat up Walkman that stirred something weird and foggy in his brain that he ultimately chose to ignore. But the case, which had ‘<em>FOR EDDIE</em>’ written in capital, slanted, <em>familiar</em> letters didn’t have a tape inside.</p>
<p>Eddie blinked at the roll of cash tucked between the paper insert and snapped the case closed, glancing around him in horrified shock. A lot of the bus seats were still empty (it would fill up enroute to New York, bodies packed in uncomfortably) but Eddie still pulled his backpack up on his lap to re-open the case inside it where he could count the battered bills in relative privacy.</p>
<p>All added up, it was nearly $800 which was an <em>insane </em>amount of money, especially considering Eddie’s mom hadn’t let him get a job. In fact, Eddie had never <em>seen </em>so much cash in one place, the closest he’d ever come being a graduation card his grandma sent him a few months before with a fifty dollar bill tucked inside. His mother had confiscated it before he’d even had a chance to touch it.</p>
<p>He knew he’d found a way around leaving home empty handed – he had vague memories of… doing a few chores… somewhere?... without telling his mom so he had a handful of hard-earned fives in his wallet but <em>eight hundred dollars</em>? Where the hell had that come from? Had he sleep-walked and robbed a bank? Had he picked up someone else’s money and pocketed it?</p>
<p>But… it was in a case clearly marked ‘<em>FOR EDDIE</em>’ and he’d found it <em>in his pocket</em> and there was something about it – something slippery that hurt the harder he tried to remember – so he rolled the bills neatly back into the slightly crushed shape they’d been in, tucked them back into the cassette case, and zipped the case into his fanny pack for safe keeping.</p>
<p>For a long time Eddie carried around that cassette case filled with cash, keeping it on him at all times because it wasn’t safe to leave that much money in a shared dorm room and, once he moved in with his mother and his aunt, it was even <em>less </em>safe to leave it in the tiny bedroom his mother ‘cleaned’ (i.e. snooped around in) on a nearly daily basis.</p>
<p>One of the first things she’d done once Eddie (clown-amnesiad to shit) let his mother back into his life was strong-arm him into giving her access to the bank account holding the money his father had left for him so she could micro-manage his finances. And the two times he tried holding down a part time job she worked herself up so bad he had to miss a shift taking her to the hospital (which got him fired, both times) so that spare, untraceable cash was a god-send. Weirdest of all, he never thought about the case filled with bills except for the moment before he pulled it out, almost like it only existed when he <em>needed </em>it to, and had Mike not reminded him about it, he probably would’ve never thought of it again.</p>
<p>Eddie spent the first five bucks of it to throw in on a bottle of vodka and some mixers with his roommate and a couple guys from the neighboring dorms in an end-of-semester celebration before the first holiday break – the only time in his college career he got a chance to party like a normal kid and wake up hungover to eat greasy eggs at the diner down the street.</p>
<p>He pulled a twenty from the supply to take Rochelle out to the movies, the very first time he’d ever taken a girl anywhere, feeling bold and magnanimous when he paid her fare on the subway and bought her the biggest popcorn and a package of Twizzlers to share, savoring the kiss she pressed to his cheek at the end of the night.</p>
<p>When he knew his mother would gawk at the price of textbooks and use them as yet another excuse to try to talk him out of continuing his education, he avoided the conversation entirely by buying them with the mystery cash, something in his chest aching every time he read the ‘<em>FOR EDDIE</em>’ scribbled on the paper insert before he tucked it away and forgot about it again.</p>
<p>He used it to eat greasy pizza his mother would have a conniption over when he was feeling smothered and to pay admittance to museums when his classes were canceled and he unexpectedly had an afternoon to himself. Once he pulled it out to cover the price of the long train ride out to Coney Island where he spent an entire summer day avoiding his mother after she threw away his grades before he had a chance to see them (he had to pay a fee to have another copy re-sent home and spent a month hovering by the mailbox to get to it first – he’d gotten straight As and his mother had sulked about it the entire summer), surprising even himself by buying a ticket to ride the Cyclone which was so breathlessly fun he immediately hoped on for another go.</p>
<p>When he graduated college, he used the depleted cash to buy his cap and gown so he could walk with his classmates – something his mother furiously tried to talk him out of – and, after that, he spent all but the last three dollars of it on his first suit – one sized to fit <em>him</em> not his father – the one he wore to his first interview where he landed the job that started his career.</p>
<p>Then, one summer afternoon, in what he could only describe as a fugue state, he walked to the park and bought two ice cream cones with the last of the money, sitting on a quiet bench as he ate one ice cream and let the other melt in his hand until he snapped out of whatever insanity had led him there, threw the messy extra cone away, and quietly and ashamedly cried without knowing why.</p>
<p>So far as he could remember, he never saw the ‘<em>FOR EDDIE</em>’ case again after that and, until this moment, never thought of it thereafter.</p>
<p>Eddie blinked away the memories, spinning in place to gape at Richie’s back through the window, the long line of his scar glaring at Eddie like a beacon.</p>
<p>‘<em>I did this for you</em>,’ that scar screamed. ‘<em>I’d do anything for you</em>.’</p>
<p>“<em>Holy shit</em>,” Eddie breathed into the phone, no idea how long he’d been standing there in silence, but Mike huffed a little sound like a laugh.</p>
<p>“Thought you might have forgotten,” he said, voice pleased.</p>
<p>“Wuh-what?” Bill asked. “What did Richie g-give you?”</p>
<p>“<em>Cash</em>,” Eddie said faintly, still in shock.</p>
<p>“Oh,” Bill said, sounding very unimpressed. “I th-thought it would be something romantic.”</p>
<p>“<em>It was</em> romantic. It <em>is</em>,” Eddie breathed, suddenly very close to crying. “He… <em>jesus</em>.”</p>
<p>Because yeah, Richie could have given him an actual mix-tape filled with schmaltzy songs about love that lasts forever but Eddie wouldn’t have known what any of that meant as soon as he passed the border of Maine. In a world where there was no <em>remembering</em> each other, even the most perfect, heart-breaking, personal gift would turn meaningless without context.</p>
<p>So Richie had given him something practical. <em>Richie</em>. Who wouldn’t know the meaning of practical if it bit him on the ass.</p>
<p>And it wasn’t just <em>practical</em>, it was a lifeline. It was a way to enable countless little rebellions against Eddie’s mother, seemingly small but <em>unimaginably </em>important to Eddie in those moments when he felt so caged and controlled that he thought he’d blast apart if he didn’t do <em>something </em>to prove he wasn’t just his mother’s puppet.</p>
<p>Richie had given him those things – the things that kept Eddie sane, the acts of defiance he clutched to his chest on the nights he screamed his frustration into his pillow, alone in the dark.</p>
<p>“Richie worked like crazy after you got your acceptance letter, picking up every shift he could at the theater to save that money up,” Mike’s voice penetrated the static buzzing in Eddie’s ears. “And he drove my gramps crazy, calling every day and asking if he needed any extra work done around the farm. Pretty sure he gave up smoking just to keep that bit of extra cash.”</p>
<p>And Eddie – Eddie had no idea. After he’d been accepted to NYU, he was in his own head, worrying about how his mother would take the news and figuring out what he needed to pack and budgeting his future with the money his father had left him. If Richie was working more or smoking less or spending more time at Mike’s farm, he never noticed.</p>
<p>“How m-much did he give you?” Bill asked, clearly still skeptical about what was, without a doubt, the most thoughtful thing anyone had ever done for Eddie in his entire life.</p>
<p>“Nearly eight hundred bucks,” Eddie exhaled and both Bill and Mike whistled.</p>
<p>“He couldn’t’a been making m-more than four dollars an hour at the theater back then,” Bill said, a tinge of awe starting to color his voice.</p>
<p>“He didn’t want to send Eddie off empty handed,” Mike explained easily like that made any fucking sense.</p>
<p>“He’s <em>insane</em>,” Eddie said, still staring at Richie’s back.</p>
<p>“He’s loved you a long time, Eddie. I just wanted to make sure you knew that.”</p>
<p>“<em>Christ</em>,” Eddie swore.</p>
<p>“And now that you do,” Mike continued, deep voice pitching around the words musically. “I hope you take good care of him.”</p>
<p>“<em>Yeah</em>,” Eddie answered, half strangled by a sob or a scream (he had no idea which) trying crawl up his throat. “Fuck, yeah, I will.”</p>
<p>“Good,” Mike hummed conclusively.</p>
<p>“Wait, Mike –” Eddie blurted, remembered his half-formed idea from earlier which was suddenly a million times more imperative. He had to show Richie – he had to give Richie <em>proof</em> the way Richie did, time and time again, that he was loved and cherished. “Do you know any photographers in Derry?”</p>
<p>Mike made a curious noise but Bill gasped, “You aren’t g-going back there!” in exactly the kind of bossy tone that normally made Eddie’s hackles rise but at the moment he was too busy being out of his fucking mind over Richie.</p>
<p>“No fucking way, man, never,” Eddie quickly affirmed. “I just need a photographer in Derry. You know anyone good, Mike?”</p>
<p>Mike hummed on the line and somehow Eddie could tell he was smiling. “Yeah, I might know someone. I’ll email you their contact info.”</p>
<p>“Thanks a million, Mike,” Eddie breathed.</p>
<p>“Now go get your man,” Mike said and Eddie didn’t need to be told twice.</p>
<p>Right before he hung up he heard Bill faintly say, “Mike, <em>what</em> –” but he didn’t stick around to hear the end of that sentence, yanking open the back door and practically teleporting into Richie’s space, losing his almost empty mug of coffee somewhere along the way.</p>
<p>“Everything ok-<em>ay?!</em>” Richie startled when Eddie very nearly tackled him off the high counter chair, trying and ultimately failing to climb into Richie’s lap. It wasn’t until Eddie buried his face into Richie’s neck, Richie’s huge hand cradling the back of his skull gently, his arm wrapped around Eddie’s middle, that Eddie realized his cheeks were wet.</p>
<p>“Uh-oh. Oh no, did Bill talk you out of this? Are you breaking up with me?” Richie said, voice pitched somewhere between joking and not.</p>
<p>The thought that Richie might genuinely be harboring that kind of uncertainty was unacceptable and Eddie grabbed Richie by the jaw to pull him into a kiss, searing and moist and sloppy but Eddie was so far past caring. He needed to <em>merge </em>with Richie and he didn’t much care how that happened so long as every bit of useless space between them closed up.</p>
<p>Richie made a happy and inquisitive little ‘<em>mmmh!?</em>’ against Eddie’s mouth that somehow ratcheted up Eddie’s desperation another ten degrees. When they broke apart, Eddie blinked his eyes open first to soak up Richie’s dreamy expression like a sponge.</p>
<p>“So… what did Billy have to say?” Richie asked, looking more curious than anxious as his thumb stroked Eddie’s cheek. “Cause I gotta say, he <em>did not </em>seemed thrilled in the group chat.”</p>
<p>“He assumed you topped,” Richie made a muppety confused face before he broke and snorted. “And he was worried you sweet talked me into bed.”</p>
<p>The smile slid right off Richie’s face as he croaked, “Oh fuck, <em>did I</em>?”</p>
<p>“<em>No</em>, asshole. Why does everyone think I’m so easy to manipulate?” Richie’s wide eyes darted to the ceiling while he curled his lips into his mouth. “<em>Do not answer that, Richard. </em>What I meant is; since fucking when have I let you talk me into something I don’t want to do?”</p>
<p>“Uh, always?” Richie asked, huffing a very uncomfortable sounding laugh as he lowered his hand from where it was very comfortably cradling Eddie’s jaw. Pissed, Eddie crowded himself even closer between Richie’s spread knees. “Literally all the time,” Richie continued, running a nail along the edge of the counter anxiously. “Oh, remember when Bev found a frog in the Kenduskeag and I made you touch it?”</p>
<p>The memory sprang up clearly in Eddie’s mind. “You didn’t <em>make </em>me touch it. I touched it of my own free will.”</p>
<p>Richie gave him a humorously pitying look that fizzled along Eddie’s spine like an angry live wire. “You touched it to prove a point because I reverse-psychologied you into it. Eddie, you’ll do anything if someone says you can’t.”</p>
<p>“I <em>wanted </em>to touch the fucking frog, okay? I was just grossed out!” Eddie snapped. “I’m <em>glad </em>I touched the frog and I never woulda done it if you hadn’t been such a little asshole about it.”</p>
<p>“You fucking <em>gagged</em>,” Richie insisted, compulsively straightening his glasses. Eddie was struck by the overwhelming urge to grab him by the head and shake some sense into him.</p>
<p>“Yeah, cause you kept on pretending to lick it! But it was also kinda cute and I wanted to hold it and you, like, <em>giggled </em>every time you touched it which made it look like fun but I was afraid of fucking <em>frog germs </em>or whatever goddamn insanity my mom put in my head so you being all ‘<em>Eddie’s</em> not gonna touch a <em>frog</em>’ like you were so fucking sure gave me the balls to touch the fucking frog!”</p>
<p>Richie was staring at him, a little wide-eyed, but a smile was creeping around the corners of his mouth. “You thought the frog was cute?” was, apparently, what he had hinged onto. “Shit, that’s so adorable.”</p>
<p>“It was a cute frog!” Eddie shouted, half belligerent, throwing his hands up in frustration. “And <em>you</em> were cute too, all fucking giggly and stupidly gentle with a little frog in your hands!” Richie’s magnified eyes went even wider. “And Bill doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about, Rich. You don’t <em>talk me into </em>shit. You make me braver and – and <em>better </em>and all the best moments of my life are the ones you’ve touched, even when I didn’t know you, even when all I had of you was a cassette case full of rumpled bills and a fucking hole in my heart.”</p>
<p>Richie blinked, his eyelashes suddenly watery, his lips parting but no sound came out.</p>
<p>“Yeah, Mike just reminded me of that! Christ, sweetheart,” and <em>there </em>were the tears, silent but steadily tracking two lines down Richie’s cheeks, “That had to be your whole savings, you lunatic. All the money you were putting together to get out of town. And you just gave it to me.”</p>
<p>Richie huffed out an attempt at a laugh. “I had a feeling you’d need it more, Spaghetti.”</p>
<p>“You’re crazy, did you know that?”</p>
<p>Richie smiled, a watery thing that was unbearably dear. “Crazy for you,” he sing-songed, a little unevenly cause his nose was stuffed up.</p>
<p>But what else could Richie say that Eddie didn’t already know so well it hurt? That no one on earth had loved Eddie the way Richie did – quietly, patiently, and without expectation? That, despite everything the rest of Eddie’s life tried to teach him, unselfish love was <em>real </em>and <em>tangible </em>and he’d been reaping its benefits for as long as he’d known Richie? That <em>someone </em>had to take care of this ridiculous bleeding-heart of a man because his kindness was borderline self-endangering and Eddie had been trained, practically since birth, for that very specific job?</p>
<p>Eddie laughed, and pulled Richie down to press a smacking kiss to his forehead. “Bill’s out of his fucking mind. I’m the luckiest man on earth.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>For the record, once Mike's grandpa learned Richie was harassing him about odd-jobs for Eddie's sake, he made a point to scrounge up a few extra chores a week.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0024"><h2>24. Chapter Twenty-Four</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: Richie's self esteem issues, and a lot of talking about Stan</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>By Saturday afternoon, Richie reluctantly acknowledged he had to make actual human contact with the world beyond the sexy little bubble their home had become and it went like this:</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p class="scriptpg">INT. TOZIER-KASPBRAK LOVE NEST – KITCHEN – DAY</p>
<p> </p>
<p class="scriptpg">RICHIE (forty and absolutely lovesick) hovers in the doorway, cell phone pressed to his ear.</p>
<p> </p>
<p class="scriptpg">RICHIE</p>
<p class="scriptpg">I’ll go on Seth Myers but only</p>
<p class="scriptpg">if I can talk about Eddie.</p>
<p class="scriptpg"> </p>
<p class="scriptpg">EDDIE (forty, unfairly sexy even just standing there washing dishes which was probably some sort of torture designed specifically to make being relatively professional extra unbearable) shoots Richie a scathing look over his shoulder. Richie grins back at him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p class="scriptpg">STEVE (o.s.)</p>
<p class="scriptpg">(over the phone)</p>
<p class="scriptpg">Richie. I know this is exciting</p>
<p class="scriptpg">for you but you don’t want to be</p>
<p class="scriptpg">Tom-Cruise-talking-about-Katie-Holmes-</p>
<p class="scriptpg">on-Oprah crazy. You aren’t famous enough</p>
<p class="scriptpg">to pull off that look.</p>
<p> </p>
<p class="scriptpg">RICHIE</p>
<p class="scriptpg">I wasn’t gonna go <em>full </em>psychopath…</p>
<p class="scriptpg"> </p>
<p class="scriptpg">Eddie shoots him another look, this one undeniably fond.</p>
<p>                              </p>
<p class="scriptpg">RICHIE (cont’d)</p>
<p class="scriptpg">I’ve got some stuff down – like a</p>
<p class="scriptpg">tight five. Been working it for a while</p>
<p class="scriptpg">and, I dunno, it’s decent.</p>
<p> </p>
<p class="scriptpg">Eddie scoffs from across the room.</p>
<p>                              </p>
<p class="scriptpg">EDDIE</p>
<p class="scriptpg">It’s better than ‘<em>decent</em>’ Rich.</p>
<p> </p>
<p class="scriptpg">There’s a notable silence on the phone.</p>
<p> </p>
<p class="scriptpg">STEVE (o.s.)</p>
<p class="scriptpg">You’ve been writing?</p>
<p class="scriptpg"> </p>
<p class="scriptpg">RICHIE</p>
<p class="scriptpg">Just messing around. A few pages</p>
<p class="scriptpg">here and there.</p>
<p> </p>
<p class="scriptpg">Another beat.</p>
<p class="scriptpg">RICHIE (cont’d)</p>
<p class="scriptpg">(incredibly smitten)</p>
<p class="scriptpg">Eddie calls them my serial killer</p>
<p class="scriptpg">diaries.</p>
<p> </p>
<p class="scriptpg">STEVE (o.s.)</p>
<p class="scriptpg">The two of you are a match made in</p>
<p class="scriptpg">heaven. Send me what you’ve got.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Approximately nine minutes after Richie copy and pasted the short set Eddie had helped him refine that morning (the one he gave his official stamp of approval on) into an email, Steve called him back.</p>
<p>“Richie,” he said, voice scarily serious, and Richie braced for impact. “This is <em>very good</em>. What the fuck? Why haven't you shown me this before?!”</p>
<p>“Uh, cause it would be kinda weird to hop up on a stage and talk about how <em>insane </em>I am over Eddie before I nutted up and told the man himself?” Eddie flicked soapy water at Richie across the kitchen counter and Richie tried not to die of fondness.</p>
<p>Steve scoffed, unimpressed. “I think you’ve really got something here,” he continued and Richie wouldn’t have admitted it out loud but hearing that from Steve – hearing praise for <em>his own </em>jokes – was making his stomach swoop in the way it used to when he was young and he’d sling a one-liner that got a decent round of chucks.</p>
<p>“I’m booking Myers,” Steve continued, all business, completely ignorant of the giddy swirl of Richie’s insides. “And I’m scheduling a meeting to talk more about <em>this</em> so check your calendar.”</p>
<p>“Yes, Captain. Right away, Captain,” Richie answered in decent impression of Scotty from <em>Star Trek</em>. Eddie ducked his head over the sink but Richie didn’t miss the upward quirk to his lips.</p>
<p>“And Richie,” Steve said, interrupting Richie’s mooning, “I’m really impressed. Keep up the good work.”</p>
<p>Then he hung up because leaving Richie shocked and faintly teary was his new fucking M.O.</p>
<p>“Okay, bigshot,” Eddie said, drying his hands on a dishcloth. “Back to the bedroom.”</p>
<p>And it wasn’t like Richie could do anything but obey that sort of command.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Over the course of the long weekend (thank <em>fuck </em>Eddie ‘worked from home’ on Monday, if he didn’t Richie would have had to resist the temptation to beg him to call out which would have been <em>a challenge</em>), Richie’s poor, out of shape, old-man body was put through the wringer because he and Eddie had sex in pretty much every and all configurations. He thought he’d been abusing his dick when he was chronically masturbating to the visual of their toothbrushes next to each other in the medicine cabinet but over the course of 78 hours, he and Eddie got off as many times as their cocks physically allowed and once when neither of them could get all the way hard (Eddie refused to be held back by literally <em>anything</em> which Richie thought was charmingly on brand).</p>
<p>On Sunday morning, <em>the lord’s day </em>(and boy did Richie do a lot of praising god that day), Eddie let Richie fuck him.</p>
<p>Okay, ‘<em>let</em>’ might be an understatement. Eddie practically ordered Richie to finger him open and then jumped into Richie’s lap and rode him like he was fucking<em> born </em>to take dick. He bitched a lot afterwards - mostly about leaking semen out his ass - and he hobbled around the house like he’d just gotten off a horse and more than twice he un-sarcastically threw around the words ‘<em>monster-cock</em>’ to describe Richie’s dick (which Richie was <em>not </em>complaining about), but he also didn’t bother pretending that he didn’t have a good time so Richie considered it a win.</p>
<p>Richie suspected Eddie bottoming might be a special-occasion type deal - vacations and bank holidays maybe - but that was fine with Richie. More than fine. When Eddie was inside him, it was the closest they could get to becoming a hideously merged hell-beast short of jumping into Jeff Goldblum’s teleporter together and since he didn’t have one of those lying around, he figured getting railed was a compromised second place.</p>
<p>Both Bev, Mike, and more surprisingly Bill, texted Richie outside of the group chat; Bev and Mike to offer congratulations and I-told-you-so-s, Bill to send a block of text that read:</p>
<p>
  <em>Richie, </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>I’m sorry I overreacted in the group chat. I had no idea you and Eddie had feelings for each other (?) but Mike says this isn’t a new thing (??), at least on your end (???), and I feel terrible that I never noticed. I want to be a better friend to you and Eddie, someone you both feel comfortable confiding in, so please know I’m very happy for you and love you dearly.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>That being said, Eddie is like a brother to me and if you hurt him, you will regret it.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Lots of love, Bill</em>
</p>
<p>He even included the fucking paragraph breaks like he was composing a cover letter instead of vaguely threatening Richie.</p>
<p>Richie showed the text to Eddie who scoffed but also looked secretly pleased, probably at Bill’s cliché, ‘<em>Eddie’s my brother, don’t fuck with him</em>’ shit, and even though the idea of fighting Bill was both hilarious and devastating, Richie was glad that Eddie was so loved, that there were people looking out for him now, that Eddie didn’t need to be alone ever again.</p>
<p>Plus when he sent a screen-cap of the text to Mike, he sent back a voice recording of a solid minute of his laughter that ended with a painfully soft, half cut off, “<em>Oh Bill</em>,” that spoke volumes. So things with them were clearly going pretty good. And now that Richie was cloud-nine-ing it up, he wanted every single one of his friends to join him, even Bill who was <em>insane</em> if he thought Richie would ever <em>choose</em> to hurt Eddie.</p>
<p>By the time Tuesday morning rolled around and Eddie’s alarm went off for work, Richie still wasn’t ready to let him go so he followed Eddie around like a puppy while he took a shower and styled his hair and put on clothes.</p>
<p>That’s how he found himself hanging back while Eddie buttoned his work shirt in front of the closet mirror, his own face reflected over Eddie’s shoulder.</p>
<p>“We’re fucking forty-year-old men, Richie!” Eddie griped, his voice hitting that sweet spot of shrilly furious that made him sound almost <em>exactly </em>like the neurotic kid he was thirty years ago. Richie kind of loved when that happened and expended a good amount of effort to hear it at least every couple days. “You can’t give me a fucking <em>hickey</em>!”</p>
<p>“What, no, it’s super low,” Richie insisted, aiming for reassuring but he somehow thought Eddie knew he was enjoying himself a little too much. Probably because of the huge shit-eating grin stretching his face clearly visible in the mirror. Eddie’s adorable perpetual frown ratcheted down into a stern scowl, frown-dimples on full display. Richie wanted to kiss him to death. “All your super-important-business-man shirts will cover it up no problem, Eds.”</p>
<p>“Don’t you ‘Eds’ me, asshole. I’m a fucking <em>adult</em>, were you trying to suck my blood out <em>through </em>my skin? Are you actually the shittiest fucking vampire or just literally a perpetual teenager?” Richie started laughing. Fuck water, all he needed to live was Eddie’s specific brand of spite. “Are you fucking -”</p>
<p>“No one will see it, look,” Richie turned Eddie to face the mirror again with two firm hands on his hips, dropping his chin onto Eddie’s shoulder. Eddie huffed but didn’t shake him off and Richie might have started laughing all over again but he didn’t actually have a death wish even if death-by-Kaspbrak might be the best possible way to go.</p>
<p>Lovingly, Richie reached his arms around Eddie in a loose embrace and finished buttoning up Eddie’s dress shirt until the hickey was <em>mostly </em>tucked beneath the white collar. “See, it’ll be our little secret,” Richie purred, fingers skimming the faint brown edge of the bruise barely visible above the fabric and Eddie huffed and slapped his hands away.</p>
<p>“What if I wear a t-shirt?” Eddie grumbled, tilting his neck to better test if the collar did indeed hide his hickey. It peeked out occasionally but it would probably pass as a shadow unless you were <em>really </em>looking, which Richie absolutely was. “Ugh, the guys at the gym are gonna give me so much shit.”</p>
<p>“‘The guys at the gym’?” Richie repeated back, plastering on a grin.</p>
<p>There were <em>guys </em>at the <em>gym</em>? Okay, objectively he knew there were other people at the gym when Eddie went to work out and <em>theoretically </em>at least some of them had dicks but he hadn’t ever thought Eddie might be <em>friendly</em> with them; these mysterious men who worked out and therefore probably looked good and could talk weights or treadmills or whatever the fuck with Eddie.</p>
<p><em>Jealousy </em>wasn’t the right word for the stab he felt somewhere between his heart and his stomach – it smacked much more of <em>fear </em>- but it wasn’t entirely the wrong word either.</p>
<p>To cover for that and the crippling self-hatred that immediately followed (Eddie <em>should </em>have friends, he <em>deserved</em> friends, even if they were beautiful gym rats with sculpted stomachs), he let his mouth run, “What, you trying to abscond with one of your workout bros? Eddie, are you having hot, sweaty, <em>affair</em> <em>sex </em>on the leg machine?!” Richie gasped in mock outrage and Eddie elbowed him in the gut.</p>
<p>“I’m not having - <em>for one</em>: it’s not an affair if we aren’t married yet, and I’m still working on the <em>one </em>divorce, thank you very fucking much,” Richie’s brain fucking blue-screened at the ‘<em>yet</em>’ so hard he actually literally erased it from his memory because he <em>had </em>to have heard that wrong, <em>right</em>? “And two: fucking gross, dude. Do you have any idea how unsanitary gym equipment is?”</p>
<p>“I gave you my <em>heart</em>,” Richie continued in his best soap opera hysterics (which was easy because he was still feeling slightly hysterical about that mostly forgotten ‘<em>yet</em>’), clutching at his chest, breaking a bit when Eddie turned to glare at him head on. Then Eddie’s brow evened out and his huge brown eyes did that thing - that baby deer thing - that made Richie’s heart ache.</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t cheat on you, Rich,” Eddie said, way too seriously, and it wasn’t like Richie thought Eddie <em>would</em>, but objectively he <em>could</em>. Eddie was an angry, foul-mouthed, Greek statue of a man. And Richie was… Richie.</p>
<p>Shit, maybe he <em>did </em>need to start eating better, if only to keep Eddie around.</p>
<p>“Doesn't hurt to stake my claim,” Riche shrugged, trying to skirt around Eddie’s penetrating gaze, dipping to press a kiss on Eddie’s neck, right above the mark, debating momentarily if sucking another hickey <em>above </em>the collar would be worth the punch Eddie would undoubtedly land to his gut. </p>
<p>“Ugh, clingy,” Eddie complained without any real heat, tilting his head so Richie had better access to his neck.</p>
<p>“Besides,” Richie diverted, desperate for a change in subject, “teenage-Richie would have <em>lost his mind</em> if he knew he got to give <em>Eddie Kaspbrak</em> a hickey and you know my therapist says sometimes I should indulge my inner child.” Richie pulled away from Eddie’s neck just in time to catch Eddie’s begrudging blissed-out expression before he schooled it back into a frown.</p>
<p>“All you do is indulge your inner child. You ate fucking Lucky Charms for breakfast and poured half the non-marshmallow pieces down the drain.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, cause their ratio’s all wrong, Spaghetti! Anyways, you have <em>no idea </em>how much I thought about marking you up when we were kids,” Richie continued, a little too hypnotized by the faint edge of the mark he could see below Eddie’s shirt. </p>
<p>“What?” Eddie bit out, sounding surprised. “Why were you thinking about that, you pervert!?”</p>
<p>“Uh, cause I was a pervert? Still am.” Richie shot Eddie finger guns, delighting at the utterly straight face Eddie glowered back at him with. “And, oh god, remember Lucy Valerino?”</p>
<p>Richie watched Eddie’s face in the mirror as it scrunched up adorably in thought. “No?”</p>
<p>“Sure you do. Short, blond, hung around the band room a lot? Sat next to you sophomore year in chemistry?”</p>
<p>“Not really?” Eddie raised an eyebrow while he reached into the closet to select a tie and Richie felt a ball of molten heat land in the pit of his stomach. At Eddie’s insistence, they hadn’t worn a lot of clothes over the course of the weekend (fucking <em>amazing</em>), in fact Richie was still standing around in nothing but his underwear, but <em>fuck </em>did Eddie look good in a suit. “Why do <em>you </em>remember her?”</p>
<p>“Because she wouldn’t stop <em>flirting </em>with you!” And whoa, okay, Richie didn’t need to be <em>weird </em>about it. He wasn’t <em>still</em> angry about a girl with a crush - okay, maybe he was <em>just a little bitter </em>he could never be so obvious about his own crush even if he probably was anyways - but that was thirty fucking years ago so Richie carefully toned it down a notch. “She’d hang all over you and try to catch you at your locker and drop by the lunch table uninvited and it made me fucking <em>crazy</em>.”</p>
<p>Eddie was trying to look stern, Richie could tell, but he also looked a little hopelessly endeared <em>thank fuck</em> because telling him about jealous teenage-Richie wasn’t exactly one of Richie’s better ideas. Still, somehow, he couldn’t stop spilling his guts.</p>
<p>“I spent, like, a week trying to figure out if there was a platonic way to give you a hickey so I could send her a fucking message,” Richie blurted, so many of his freshly regained memories circling Eddie hideously embarrassing and too big and beautiful and <em>awful</em> not to be shared.</p>
<p>“A <em>platonic </em>hickey?” Eddie repeated, blinking slowly while he processed Richie’s word vomit, one very sarcastic eyebrow rising to his hairline.</p>
<p>“Yeah, you know. Like as a joke or something,” Richie added lamely, entirely enraptured by the practiced way Eddie popped his collar and wrapped the tie around his neck.</p>
<p>“You didn’t think <em>sucking on my neck</em> would have given away the whole...”</p>
<p>“Desperately, pathetically in love with you thing?” Richie finished for him, smiling when Eddie’s cheeks tinged the slightest bit pink. “Eddie my love, we fucking <em>cuddled </em>in that hammock all the time, mostly at your insistence. How much weirder would it have been if I tackled you and gave you a big, gaudy hickey to torment you?”</p>
<p>Horror dawned on Eddie’s face. “Oh god.” Richie nodded furiously. He’d been pretty fucking close on more than one occasion. “Jesus, <em>I’d have let you</em>,” Eddie admitted, eyes wide, and Richie choked on his own spit.</p>
<p>“You’d <em>what</em>?”</p>
<p>“I would have thought ‘<em>oh, that’s Richie, being an asshole again</em>’ and bitched about it to fucking <em>everyone</em> and I’d have to wear turtlenecks to hide it from my mom…” he trailed off a little, turning to inspect the almost-covered mark in the mirror as he effortlessly knotted his tie. “... I’d probably have kind of liked it, too.”</p>
<p>“<em>Oh fuck</em>,” Richie breathed, a ragged moan punched out of his lungs, undone by Eddie’s quiet admission punctuated by the sharp tug Eddie did to fasten the completed knot at his throat. “Oh fuck, let me give you a hickey, Eddie, please,” Richie begged wrapping his arms around Eddie’s stupidly muscular chest and mouthing sloppily at his neck again.</p>
<p>“You already fucking did, asshole,” Eddie grit out, but his hand snuck between where Richie had plastered himself to Eddie’s back and rubbed at Richie through his briefs. Richie moaned, long and lewd, rutting into Eddie’s proffered palm enthusiastically, liking a little too much how close to naked he was while Eddie was fully dressed.</p>
<p>“I want people to know,” Richie panted, his breath ghosting over Eddie’s spit damp skin, his temple brushing against the soft, just-shaved line of Eddie’s jaw. “Want everyone to see.”</p>
<p>“See what?” Eddie asked, his voice cracking a bit even as he tried to sound angry.</p>
<p>“That you let me put my Trashmouth all over you.” Richie scraped his teeth along the long column of Eddie’s throat and jerked his hips hard when Eddie sighed out a quiet moan. “Gotta send Lucy Valerino a message.”</p>
<p>“Richie, I can’t go to work with a <em>hickey</em>. We’re <em>adults</em>.” </p>
<p>“Pretty sure last week you told me I was three muppets stacked on top of each other wearing a Hawaiian shirt.” Even as he said it, he was laughing. It was maybe one of the best insults he’d ever heard, and he was struck for the millionth time by an overwhelming flash of disgustingly sappy affection.</p>
<p>“You are so fucking weird,” Eddie bit out but he was laughing too, his hand slipping under the waistband of Richie’s underwear. “But I can’t go to work marked up by my fucking boyfriend, Rich, it’s unprofessional.”</p>
<p>Again, Richie froze, his mouth and hands and hips stilling their frantic movement. “B - boyfriend?” Richie stammered but thankfully his voice didn’t crack like the pre-pubescent kid suddenly possessing his body.</p>
<p>Eddie’s face scrunched up in the mirror but Richie was still recovering from the physical blow of hearing himself be referred to as ‘<em>boyfriend</em>’ by <em>Eddie</em> fucking <em>Kaspbrak </em>so he didn’t have any brain power left to process his expression.</p>
<p>“Uh,<em> yeah</em>,” Eddie continued like it was fucking obvious and the tingling starting in Richie’s sinuses hinted tears were on the way. “Or, I dunno man, do we do the whole ‘partners’ thing? I don’t <em>hate</em> it but we aren’t detectives, you know? We aren’t a crime fighting duo or fucking cowboys. People on the internet say ‘significant other’ a lot, is that more your speed?”</p>
<p>Richie hadn’t even <em>considered </em>defining his relationship with Eddie like that. The almost unbelievable circumstances that led Richie to this point in his life – Eddie and him sharing a bedroom and a home and <em>a life</em>, Eddie’s hand currently wrapped loosely around his dick and stroking, a mark on his neck <em>Richie </em>had sucked into his skin while they fucked each other repetitively for three whole days – surpassed any sort of reasonable label Richie could produce in his head. Even in the tight five he’d sent Steve he started his set with, ‘<em>So this guy, Eddie, the love of my entire fucking life</em>,’ and that <em>still </em>didn’t feel like quite enough.</p>
<p>But here Eddie was, asking what they were, presumably so he could use the word if Richie were to come up in conversation. ‘<em>Soulmates</em>,’ the teenaged Richie who had a new, safer home inside Richie’s heart longed to shout. ‘<em>Husbands</em>,’ adult Richie nearly insisted before he reined himself in.</p>
<p>Honestly, put on the spot like that, Richie didn’t know what to say. He’d never gotten to this point with someone before.</p>
<p>Eddie was clearly waiting for an answer but Richie was too busy trying not to cry to come up with anything better than, “Yeah, Eddie, anything - whatever you like.”</p>
<p>“But what do <em>you </em>like?” Eddie demanded, turning in the circle of Richie’s arms and fishing his hand out of Richie’s underwear to lay both palms flat on Richie’s bare pecs. </p>
<p>“I like ‘em all,” Richie mumbled, his vision going blurry. Eddie scrutinized him penetratingly for long enough that Richie blurted, “Boyfriend!” just to break the tension. At a more normal volume, he continued, “Boyfriend, I - I like boyfriend. But I guess it’s kinda young…”</p>
<p>“We deserve a chance to feel young together,” Eddie hummed decisively, slipping his fingers under Richie’s frames to wipe away a few stray tears.</p>
<p>“Never had a boyfriend before,” Richie admitted. “Not even a secret one,” he explained, going off Eddie’s disbelieving eyebrow raise.</p>
<p>Eddie frowned, but then his face softened, hands cradling Richie’s jaw pulling him down for a long, soft kiss. “Me neither,” Eddie murmured against his lips. Then he smiled, bright and a little mean, exactly the way Richie liked best. “Is it fucked up I’m glad I get to be your first? That we get to be <em>each other’s</em> firsts?”</p>
<p>And oh, Richie really liked that. Putting it that way re-framed all the semi-girlfriends and casual hook-ups and years of fear and isolation into a twisted sort of destiny. He’d been waiting for Eddie. And now, there was a strong possibility Eddie might be his first, last, and <em>only </em>boyfriend which is how he’d always kind of hoped things would go in his nicest adolescent daydreams.</p>
<p>He <em>also </em>liked the way Eddie groaned when Richie dropped to his knees, pulling Eddie’s half-hard cock out through the fly of his slacks, working him with his mouth and hand until Eddie was pulsing and stiff against his tongue. He liked the way Eddie angled himself so they could watch themselves in the mirror, Eddie devastatingly handsome in his suit, dark eyes burning as he came undone for Richie who he loved and wanted to be with and wanted to call his boyfriend.</p>
<p>Eddie was late for work but Richie could tell he only half-pretended to mind.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>Richie went on Seth Myers and, just like promised, he talked about Eddie (who had come with him to record and was sitting in the audience probably trying very hard not to laugh at anything Richie said because he was a stubborn bastard and Richie liked him so <em>so </em>much). They pulled up the twitter pictures - the ones of Eddie and him kissing - and Richie was very glad for the heavy stage makeup they put on him because he was never going to <em>not </em>associate those images with Eddie turning over in the sheets with a hard dick. He had to be beet red under a thick layer of foundation.</p>
<p>“That’s Eddie,” Richie said, and he knew without looking at the playback monitors that he had a stupid sappy smile on his face. He was pretty sure that was turning into his default setting. “The love of my entire life.”</p>
<p>Richie’s new, Eddie-heavy material went over well. Seth laughed, the audience laughed, even Eddie laughed, right on the edge of the where the audience faded into darkness, and Richie wondered, for the millionth time since Eddie kissed him, whether this could <em>actually</em> be his life – wasn’t it so much more likely Richie was still in the Deadlights? The stage lights were bright enough, god was he still floating?</p>
<p>But he did his best to swallow that fear while on stage, saving it to panic over later just in case it <em>was </em>real. Better not to ruin a good thing. If he was unusually sweaty after the interview, no one mentioned it except for Eddie who brushed his wet bangs away from his forehead and looked at him with so much love in his huge cartoon eyes Richie figured if he <em>was </em>dreaming he still had no complaints.</p>
<p>It wasn’t until later, after the show aired and Richie’s remaining twitter fanbase blew up about it, that Richie realized he might have put Eddie’s divorce proceedings in jeopardy by flapping his mouth about their relationship while Eddie was still technically married. Did that make what they were doing adultery? Would that compromise Eddie’s finances? He and Richie hadn’t done anything until Eddie was well and truly separated from Myra but still, the optics weren’t great.</p>
<p>When Richie woke Eddie up to grill him with those questions (they’d been asleep when the realization struck him and he was worked up about it enough he knew he couldn’t wait for morning), Eddie turned to him with a powerful grimace of disdain and huffed, “Rich, I don’t fucking care. I waited my entire life to kiss you, I’m not gonna spend another fucking second on stand-by for permission.”</p>
<p>And after something like that, how was Richie <em>not </em>supposed to touch Eddie’s dick? Plus Eddie was a lot less grumpy about being woken up in the middle of the night if he got to cum so win/win.</p>
<p>It turned out the interview worked somewhat in their favor regarding Eddie’s divorce. Myra, who had been dragging her feet in a lot of the negotiations, had new reason to hurry now that Eddie’s relationship was so public and, for the most part (and slightly bafflingly), widely adored. They were papped around town a couple more times – grocery shopping and going on lunch dates and shopping for Christmas presents – the kind of domestic shit that sold the kind of life they were living together which was quietly happy and (considering how obviously Richie mooned over Eddie in every single picture and, <em>unbelievably</em>, Eddie mooned right back) very much in love.</p>
<p>The whole thing was wildly novel to Richie who had never been <em>sympathetic </em>before, even at the height of his popularity. He was a dick, a frat guy, a bro. He made dirty jokes and tortured fake girlfriends with his emotional bankruptcy. Even his substance abuse issues were too volatile to garner him a flicker of public compassion.</p>
<p>But this new side of him (while certainly still met with plenty of skepticism) made him <em>likable</em> (according to Steve) and he and Eddie quickly became the kind of couple people rooted for. These two men re-discovering each other late in life. A lot of that came with the subtext ‘<em>Can Richie Tozier make it work</em>?’ but Eddie, at least, had confidence he could. And if there was anyone on earth Richie trusted, it was him.</p>
<p>Myra, either embarrassed to be associated with them or homophobic enough to want to cut ties or else, maybe, finally getting the picture that Eddie couldn’t be tugged back into her strangle hold, stopped working so hard to slow the proceedings down. Myra got to keep the condo and her car and would rake in a not-insignificant alimony check on the monthly but Eddie got his retirement fund and his freedom. Generally, he seemed to consider anything after the later a bonus.</p>
<p>With more honest consideration and care than Richie knew what to do with, Eddie and Steve read over his better jokes, punched them up, and gave him feedback. Steve contacted old friends who hosted smaller but legitimate mic-nights so Richie could see what landed and what didn’t and Richie tested the waters of what it meant to perform on stage with <em>his own </em>material, a much more nerve racking process than he’d remembered from his mid-twenties when he was young enough to be less self-aware.</p>
<p>Eddie came to every one of those shows too but he never pretended not to laugh and he always kissed Richie soundly on the lips afterwards even though Richie left the stage sweating and anxious, a part of him terrified the bright lights would start swirling, that he was still floating, that the unnervingly good life he’d scraped together was false and any second he’d hit the cave floor with a crash and watch the man he loved – now more than ever – die right in front of him.</p>
<p>But Eddie was always there, sitting just close enough to the stage the bright lights gave an impression of his features. And every time Richie <em>didn’t </em>slam out of the deadlights in the middle of his set, he grew a little more confident he wasn’t still floating, that this life was real, that somehow, against all odds, he was here and Eddie was here and things might be okay.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>The call came on a quiet Thursday afternoon, the day before Eddie and Richie were scheduled to fly out to Nebraska for the Losers Holiday Extravaganza. Richie was methodically pulling the patio furniture into the shed in preparation to be out of town for two weeks, ignoring the twinge in his shoulder, ears straining for the sound of Eddie’s car pulling into the driveway but mostly all he could hear was the occasional chattering from a goldfinch that had made its nest in the tree out front.</p>
<p>When his phone buzzed in his pocket, he assumed it was Eddie, calling because traffic was shitty and he needed someone to listen to him vent or that it was Mike with an update on his and Bill’s voyage into the snowy center of America or maybe Bev asking him what kind cereal he wanted while she was at the store.</p>
<p>But the name ‘<em>Patricia Uris</em>’ glowed at him from the screen and for a painfully long second, the world went completely silent except or the flittering birdsong of the goldfinch.</p>
<p>He didn’t <em>choose </em>to pick up the call but suddenly his phone was pressed to his ear and his throat was working around a scratchy, far away sounding, “Hello?”</p>
<p>“Um, <em>hiiiiiii</em>,” a musical voice spoke on the other end. “Is this Richie Tozier? <em>Richard </em>Tozier?”</p>
<p>“Richie, yeah, that’s me,” Richie heard himself say.</p>
<p>“Hi, Richie,” she said, and it was weird how <em>right </em>her voice sounded, warm and improbably familiar. Richie’s heart gave a solid <em>thump-thump</em> that he felt all the way down to his toes. “Mike gave me your number, I hope that’s okay. I’m Patty. Patty Uris. Stan’s…”</p>
<p> “Stan’s wife,” Richie finished for her, voice breathy and high. “I’ve - yeah, I’ve been meaning to call.” And wow, Richie needed to sit down, so he did, right there on the patio sofa where it was half hanging out of the shed.</p>
<p>There was a long moment of silence then, and Richie wracked his brain for something to say but seriously, what the fuck was he supposed to tell the widow of his childhood best friend – a woman he had never met because, technically, he had never met the Stan that she knew either, but Stan had <em>died </em>for Richie. For all the Losers. And to do that he’d left his wife behind.</p>
<p>It was Patty who was brave enough to break the prolonged silence.</p>
<p>“I promise I’m not crazy…” Patty began and despite how obviously inappropriate it was, Richie burst into hysterical laughter that he strangled down a moment too late. “Maybe I shouldn’t have started with that,” she added afterwards, less embarrassed sounding than ponderous. </p>
<p>“No, it’s a great opener,” Richie insisted. “Full cards on the table: <em>I </em>might be crazy so you’re in good company.” Patty laughed and as a connoisseur of laughter, Richie recognized it for what it was: a snap in the tension. Patty was nervous to speak to him which didn’t exactly make him feel <em>better</em> but at least he wasn’t the only one shitting their pants.</p>
<p>“Well if we’re being honest,” she reluctantly continued, “I might not be <em>totally </em>sane.”</p>
<p>“Well, you married Stan so…” he figured his mouth would automatically shape some tasteless joke but what came out instead was, “...you’ve gotta be a woman with your head on straight,” and then he almost crumpled to ash from the breathy sincerity in his voice.</p>
<p>Patty made a noise that sounded faintly like disagreement, then said, “He adored you, you know. Stan,” and all the air whooshed out of Richie in a wheezy little gasp.</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“He watched you in everything you were in.”</p>
<p>“<em>What</em>?” Richie repeated, devastated. But being devastated over Stan felt wrong when he was on the phone with his <em>wife</em> who was obviously in agony no doubt a billion times more acute than Richie’s so he did his best to swallow back the tidal wave of tears banking behind his eyes. “Wow, what happened to his taste?”</p>
<p>Patty laughed and, even though Richie was on the verge of screaming, it was a good sound. Clear and loud and ringing. Unselfconscious. Something in his heart hurt to hear it but it was the kind of hurt that felt like healing. Like a bone being reset.</p>
<p>“Oh,” she went on, “he <em>hated </em>the stuff you were in. And your stand-up, especially the later stuff. But he watched it all religiously. ‘<em>This is awful</em>,’ he’d say,” and christ. <em>Christ</em>. She’d done an impression of Stan’s voice and it didn’t sound too far off from the flat droll Richie remembered from Stan’s post-puberty voice. “And he’d sit there and think about it but every time, eventually he’d admit, ‘<em>But I like this guy</em>.’ He was baffled by it, honestly we both were, but it was kind of charming, too, how much shit he’d talk when you were on the TV…”</p>
<p>She trailed off then, and Richie didn’t need to know her to hear the pain in that silence. When Richie didn’t rush to fill it, she added, “Technically he might have said ‘asshole’ instead of ‘guy’ but we’ve never met so I thought that might be rude.”</p>
<p>That startled another laugh out of Richie, one that was unexpectedly wet with tears and strangled by a sob. Patty made a similar sound before she sniffed and cleared her throat.</p>
<p>“So here’s the thing,” she said, voice brusque with the kind of courageous intent Richie recognized immediately because he heard it so often from Eddie. “Lately I’ve been having these dreams.”</p>
<p>A bowling ball landed in the pit of Richie’s stomach. “<em>Oh</em>,” he said, the sound completely lacking levity.</p>
<p>Patty paused. “That was an interesting ‘<em>oh</em>’.”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Richie mumbled back because what the fuck else could he say? The Deadlight dreams still came him, at least once a week, but they were easier to shake out of with Eddie already wrapped up in his arms. “What kind of dreams?” he asked.</p>
<p>“Dreams about Stan.”</p>
<p>“<em>Oh</em>,” Richie said again, stupidly. </p>
<p>“And, uh, so here’s another thing,” she continued and now she sounded <em>nervous </em>which was no fucking comfort to Richie who was drenched in sweat. “I guess I’m pregnant?”</p>
<p>Richie choked on his spit, pulling the phone away so he didn’t hack away directly into Patty’s ear. When he had mostly recovered, he coughed out, “You <em>guess</em>?”</p>
<p>“Well, no. I mean I <em>am </em>pregnant. Dream Stan told me and then I peed on, like, six different sticks. I’m looking at them right now,” there was some fumbling on Patty’s end of the call, rustling and something plastic clattering against tiles, “and they really don’t make these things easy to read but the consensus seems to be… yes baby.”</p>
<p>“So,” Richie said, feeling faint, “Dream Stan told you you’re pregnant.”</p>
<p>“Mm-hmm,” Patty hummed succinctly, a note of mania in the sound.</p>
<p>“You had a dream about Stan and he told you you’re pregnant, which turned out to be true, and then you called <em>me</em> -”</p>
<p>“Because Dream Stan also told me to tell you and I figured if he was right about the one thing, he might be onto something with the other.”</p>
<p>Richie massaged his temples with one hand. “<em>What the fuck</em>…”</p>
<p>“Yeah, still think you’re the crazy one?” Patty asked and Richie inappropriately snorted. “And like, sure, I get that maybe <em>subconsciously </em>I realized I might be pregnant but with the grief, I couldn’t acknowledge that until my brain conjured up a dream about Stan to shake me out of it but…” She sighed and when she spoke again, her voice had a firmness to it that Richie wouldn’t dare argue with. “The dream - it didn’t <em>feel </em>like something I invented. It felt <em>real</em>.” When Richie, his hand still clapped over his mouth, heart pounding a mile a minute, only made some sort of strangled noise in response, she grit out, “Shit, I <em>am</em> out of my fucking mind, sorry I called -”</p>
<p>“These dreams,” Richie choked, interrupting her before she could hang up. “What are they like?”</p>
<p>There was a long moment of quiet on the other end of the call before Patty very softly muttered, “They’re nice.” She sniffed again and Richie recognized the faint breath of someone trying to get their crying under control. “Stan’s there.”</p>
<p>“Where?” Richie asked, not sure what he was probing for.</p>
<p>“It’s like a lake? There’s cliffs and a lot of trees and it smells like summer. The water’s green…” The quarry. Richie tilted his head back to stare at the flat grey sky. “And there’s a turtle… We tread water while we talk. It’s peaceful and – and sad. But he’s there so…”</p>
<p>“<em>Jesus</em>,” Richie sobbed inadvertently. “What do you talk about?”</p>
<p>It was Patty’s turn to lose it. “Oh, you know, the usual. Why’d you do it? Why did you leave me? Please don’t be -” she cut off abruptly and Richie waited, listening to her breathing on the other end. “He said you’d explain it.”</p>
<p>“He said <em>what</em>?” Richie practically gasped.</p>
<p>“He said ‘<em>talk to Richie, he’ll tell you anything you ask</em>’.”</p>
<p>“<em>Shit</em>.”</p>
<p>Patty laughed at that, loud and a little ragged. “I just don’t understand. Any of this. We were happy and – and yeah Stan <em>struggled </em>but… And we weren’t able to have kids – we tried for <em>ages</em>, god we tried everything, but even our adoption applications were turned down. And now he’s gone and I’m <em>pregnant </em>and it’s like fucking <em>magic</em>…”</p>
<p>The noise Richie made in the back of his throat cut her off mid-rant. After a long moment where Richie didn’t contribute anything else, she continued.</p>
<p>“And now I’m having these dreams and… I don’t know what to think. Stan was all I had, Richie. My relationship with my family is fucking complicated and Stan’s mom is in a home with late-stage Alzheimer’s, his dad half a decade dead, and dream-Stan keeps telling me ‘<em>talk to Richie, talk to the Losers</em>,’ like that’ll help anything and –” she broke off on a frustrated shout that turned into slightly manic laughter.</p>
<p>“So somehow my life has turned into this: calling up minor celebrities my husband knew when he was child instead of talking to my therapist. Are you<em> sure</em> I sound like my head’s on straight?”</p>
<p>Richie blinked, a fresh wash of tears dripping down his cheeks, and when the moisture cleared from his eyes, he saw Eddie standing at the side gate, raising his hand to wave and then pausing when he got a look at Richie’s face. In the next second he had <em>vaulted </em>the fence and dropped his nice shoulder bag into the patch of flowers under the kitchen window on his sprint to Richie’s side.</p>
<p>“<em>Richie</em>?!”</p>
<p>“Patty,” Richie said, more for Eddie’s benefit than hers because he’d skidded to his knees in front of Richie. At the name, Eddie’s eyes filled with a horrified sort of understanding and his shaking hands landed on Richie’s knees. “There’s some things that maybe you should know,” Richie started and Eddie’s eyes shot up to meet his. “And it’s – <em>fuck</em> – it’s a pretty unbelievable story.”</p>
<p>“I’d like to hear it,” Patty said firmly. “I want to hear it.”</p>
<p>“I – fuck Stan for sending you to me for this,” Eddie’s eyebrows furrowed and, remembering who Richie was talking to, he rushed to blurt, “<em>Fuck</em>, sorry Patty, it’s just Bill woulda done a better job, or Mike. Or Ben or Bev or fucking anyone but me except maybe Eddie…” who scoffed in indignation.</p>
<p>“Stan said you’d say that,” she whispered and Richie didn’t know what kind of face he made but Eddie grabbed for his free hand and clenched it hard.</p>
<p>“And I don’t feel super great about doing this over the phone,” Richie admitted, forcefully pulling himself together so he could do the one thing Stan asked from him the <em>right </em>way even if he was absolutely the wrong person to ask. He – he owed that to Stan. He owed everything to Stan. “Especially since you’re pregnant.” Eddie’s eyebrows shot to his hairline and he sat back on his heels, dragging one palm down his face.</p>
<p>‘<em>With Stan’s…</em>?’ he mouthed.</p>
<p>“Hey, weird question, any chance the kid’s not –”</p>
<p>“They’re Stan’s,” Patty interrupted with a little scoff but it didn’t sound terribly angry. “Believe it or not, <em>mourning </em>isn’t a hot look for hook-ups.”</p>
<p>“Right. Uh – sorry, had to ask. And, um, all I know about pregnancies is what I learned from pretending to reading Wuthering Heights in high school so I don’t know if you’ll, like, swoon if you hear anything too crazy…”</p>
<p>Eddie glared at him faintly horrified but Patty snorted, an oddly likable noise. “I’ll try to keep my <em>swooning</em> to a minimum,” she said, so flat and dry for a second it was like Richie was speaking to Stan.</p>
<p>“Okaaaaay,” Richie dragged out, figuring he’d start big and work his way down. “Okay Pats, on a scale of one to ten - one being you’ll call up the cops to have me committed and ten being you’ve got your own abduction story - how do you feel about aliens?”</p>
<p>There was a noise on the other end of the line, a wet click like Patty had opened her mouth, but no sound followed. Eddie was staring at Richie clearly struggling between a desire to smack Richie or burst out in panicked laughter. He settled for pulling at his own hair and mouthing, ‘<em>wwwwhhhhyyyy</em>??’ like Richie had any fucking idea what the fuck he was doing.</p>
<p>“Not, like, little-green-men aliens but, like, ancient-cosmic-horror aliens,” Richie amended as if that made things any better. “You know. Lovecraft shit.”</p>
<p>“I – <em>wow</em>,” she breathed and didn’t give him much more to work with.</p>
<p>“How’s the swooning situation?” Richie asked. “You still upright?”</p>
<p>“I’m sitting down,” Patty admitted. “I – <em>what</em>.”</p>
<p>“So, uh, those exist. And Stan - all of us - we met one when we were kids.”</p>
<p>“Okay,” Patty said, sounding very much like it wasn’t okay which Richie thought was incredibly fair. “Is – is that the worst of it?”</p>
<p>“No,” Richie said, trying to sound as serious as he could. “It was a shapeshifter and It’s favorite form was a clown for <em>some </em>fucking reason.” Understandably, Patty had nothing to say to that, so after a pause he continued, “But I think Stan mostly saw It as a creepy painting lady with a flute.” There was a noise on Patty’s end like she’d dropped something. “You okay over there, Patty?”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” she said, breathless, faint. “Keep – keep going, please.”</p>
<p>Richie told her everything. If that was what Stan sent her to Richie for, he’d do it, and after all the shit they’d been through, he didn’t doubt for a second that Patty’s Dream-Stan was the real thing – or as close to real as they’d ever get.</p>
<p>It helped that Eddie was there, uncustomarily quiet, mumbling insertions or corrections to steer Richie’s somewhat rambling story in the right direction, dragging out a heavy quilt when the sun dipped and the night turned chilly, curling up against Richie’s side.</p>
<p>Somewhere near the end, around when he was giving a very abbreviated version of how they crushed It’s heart with the power of friendship, Richie noticed how much <em>lighter </em>he felt having told the story, start to finish, in its entirety. There was no need to disguise the truth as a dream or a fantasy, no substituting Henry Bowers for the clown, none of the tricks he’d learned to discuss <em>facets</em> of his experience with his therapist without ever giving her the whole picture.</p>
<p>Patty got the whole truth, start to finish, and it was horrible and unfair and <em>cruel </em>in a sick way, but giving it to her made Richie feel, maybe not <em>better</em>, not all the way, but something closer to it.</p>
<p>When he was done, Patty sighed, long and slow, almost like she was relieved.</p>
<p>Richie couldn’t even imagine what she must think. What would <em>he </em>think if some fucking stranger tried to tell him about It, tried to use some fantastical story about a murdering shape-shifter to explain the untimely, horrific death of his husband. He wished, desperately, that he had something better to give Stan’s wife but he didn’t. He only had the truth. The fucked up, completely implausible truth.</p>
<p>“I know it’s insane –”</p>
<p>“It’s not,” Patty interrupted. “Well, no, <em>it is</em>. It’s…” she sighed again, breath shaky. “Some things – a lot of things - make sense.” She was quiet for a while, the silence charged with thought.</p>
<p>“When we saw the Georgia Philharmonic, he went white as a ghost during Debussy’s Syrinx. He stood up and walked out when the flutist started and Stan – he wouldn’t leave a movie to pee because he thought it was rude.</p>
<p>“Odd things –” she made a quiet noise, not quite a whimper but close, “Odd things set him off. He said he couldn’t remember much of his childhood and, I mean, I thought something must have happened to him, something he repressed. He was always so protective of the neighbor kids so I assumed…</p>
<p>“A couple years ago, one of them fell down an open manhole and broke his arm and Stan <em>lost </em>it, even worse than the kid. I’d never seen him like that before, he was <em>so scared</em>. But he wouldn’t let me climb down and carry the kid out – he did that himself, shaking like a leaf.</p>
<p>“He had nightmares, horrible ones, when the septic tank broke, worse than the ones he usually had. He’d wake up shivering and crying out the names of people I’d never met. Names I never heard him mention until the – until I found the letters.”</p>
<p>And fuck did that hurt to think about. Richie wasn’t <em>okay</em> during the twenty-two years he spent without his memory, none of them were, but it was almost like Stan remembered just a little bit better, just enough to torture him.</p>
<p>“I would’ve gone with,” Patty said finally, a long time after they sat in silence listening to each other breathe. “If he hadn’t – if he had <em>told </em>me – I would’ve gone with.”</p>
<p>“I know,” Richie hummed, and he didn’t know how he knew, only that he did. Stan probably knew too. The thought wasn’t comforting. “I wish you had – I wish you and Stan rolled up in some sensible midsize vehicle, Stan in a fucking sweater vest and scared out of his mind but <em>there</em>. If he’d come – <em>shit</em>,” Richie panted, so dehydrated he had no more tears left to cry. “He was the practical one, you know? Bet we woulda been in and out of there in twelve hours. No bullshit, straight to the point. And you’d have fit right in, Patty-cakes, I can tell.”</p>
<p>And that was a truth he felt down deep all the way in his soul.</p>
<p>“I –” she broke off to clear her throat very officiously. “I want to meet you all,” she said, so firmly Richie blanked for a second. “Stan - Dream Stan, whatever - he asked me to let you all be a part of his child’s life. If, you know,” she paused, losing some of her steam, “If that’s something you’d want.”</p>
<p>Had Richie thought he’d run out of tears? Clearly he was mistaken because he burst out into a loud, almost laughing sob, so harsh it hurt his throat. “We want that, Patty. <em>Holy fuck</em>, yeah, that’s something we want.”</p>
<p>It was at that point that Richie passed the phone over to Eddie (to be more accurately, Eddie pried it out of his fingers with an eye roll and a scoff), Richie far too overcome with emotions to carry on, stifling his noises behind both his hands and watching, through teary eyes, Eddie speak to her for a few minutes. Richie couldn’t make out much of either end of the conversation, too wrecked and painfully <em>hopeful</em> – Stan was having a <em>kid</em>, there was still a little piece of him left in the world that the Losers could love – to properly hear Eddie’s subdued conversation, but right before he hung up, his eyes swiveled up to Richie and brimmed with tears, a look of quiet wonder unraveling his furrowed brow and turning tight lips slack.</p>
<p>“What?” Richie asked, once Eddie put the phone down and angrily swiped away his own tears.</p>
<p>“Patty’s coming to Nebraska. She didn’t have holiday plans so we’re buying her a ticket out,” he answered which was more than a little shocking – it was a fucking <em>miracle </em>Richie hadn’t scared her off and he attributed that entirely to whatever the fuck Stan had said to her in her dreams – but that news didn’t warrant Eddie’s tears. After a pause, Eddie’s eyes flitted back up to Richie’s and he smiled, something soft and sad and wistful but very dear. “She said Stan told her to tell us, ‘<em>about damn time</em>.’”</p>
<p>And Richie guffawed, one loud, bleat of laughter, before he pulled Eddie into his arms and wrung out the very last of his tears as the goldfinch out front twittered in commiseration.</p>
<p> </p>
<hr/>
<p> </p>
<p>The next morning, Richie woke up to Eddie’s blurry face inches from his own, the dark smear of his mouth curved into a grin.</p>
<p>“Wake up,” Eddie said, and the tone of his voice suggested he <em>thought </em>he was whispering but Eddie had never quite mastered the art.</p>
<p>“Flight’s later,” Richie grumbled. The light cutting through their blinds was still early-morning grey so he hadn’t slept in. They weren’t due at the airport until afternoon and Eddie had insisted they packed their bags half a week ago so there was no rush to get out of bed.</p>
<p>Richie couldn’t remember the details of the dream he’d been having but it was nice: light reflecting off green water, the dark shadow of a turtle under the surface, a man with a soft, laconic smile. Richie thought he was cursed to wake up dehydrated and exhausted and headachy after all the crying he’d done the night before but instead he found himself oddly peaceful, a strange feeling in his stomach making him think he’d woken up mid-laugh. “’S go back to sleep,” he urged Eddie, pulling him into his chest and trying to smother him into submission.</p>
<p>He was 0% surprised when that didn’t work. Eddie wrangled himself loose and shoved Richie’s glasses on his face for him, Eddie’s feature coming into sharp focus. It was hard to be mad about being woken up with Eddie smiling all private and weird like that at him, peppering Richie’s face with aggressive kisses.</p>
<p>“Your present came,” Eddie said, deeply pleased with himself, and Richie scooted up onto his elbows to better give him A Look.</p>
<p>“You don’t want to wait until Christmas?” Richie asked, thinking of his own present – an old photograph his sister had unearthed from who the fuck knows where after she saw him on Myers; him and Eddie grinning with their arms around each other, not a day over ten, sitting on the Tozier’s front stoop and squinting into the sun.</p>
<p>(He’d also gotten Eddie a very expensive juicer because he’d been dropping not-subtle-at-all hints about it for the entire month of December but that was so utterly unromantic Richie barely counted it as a gift.)</p>
<p>Richie had known Eddie was working on something sneaky – he’d been cagey about deliveries lately and occasionally fucked around on his phone with his shoulders up to his ears, shooting Richie distrustful glances, typing away with his thumbs with a seriousness that suggested he was trading nuclear launch codes. Richie had only moderately pestered him about it, curious and honestly a little terrified about whatever it might be.</p>
<p>Still, he reluctantly got out of bed when Eddie’s kicks under the sheets started to almost hurt, slipping his hand comfortably into Eddie’s as he was led out into the living room.</p>
<p>He wasn’t sure what he was expecting so he glanced around, searching for a wrapped gift tucked under the little plastic tree they’d put up and haphazardly decorated, but a quick scan of the room made it immediately obvious what was new.</p>
<p>The banana shaped LED neon light that Richie had hung over the mantle (mostly as a joke after Eddie decided the hideous still life fruit bowl painting Bill had bafflingly brought over the night he left his wife wasn’t up to snuff) had been replaced with a large, nicely framed photograph.</p>
<p>“Wait, what?” Richie said stupidly, stopping dead in his tracks in front of the fireplace to gape.</p>
<p>It was a photo of the kissing bridge, the crooked R+E time worn but carved deep enough it still read clearly, miraculously undisturbed by two decades worth of etchings from similar hopeless romantics.</p>
<p>“How did you -”</p>
<p>“Hired a photographer,” Eddie said with a coy smirk, crossing his arms and standing next to Richie to admire the picture. “Obviously I had to see it. You fucking sap, I can’t believe you really carved our initials into the kissing bridge.” Richie raised an eyebrow at him and he corrected, “Okay, it makes perfect sense, but I had to see it and <em>no way </em>was I going back to Derry for fucking anything so,” he gestured at the photo in a sharp, open-palmed jab.</p>
<p>Richie, for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, felt a little breathless. There was the faintest echo of ‘<em>Eddie don’t look don’t look don’t look!</em>’, the ancient mantra that repeated itself in his head anytime they rode their bikes past the bridge after the summer of ’89, ricocheting around his brain like a muscle memory, but Eddie <em>was </em>looking, eyes soft and dimples flickering to life in his cheeks.</p>
<p>The last time Richie saw the mark now immortalized on their living room wall, he was on his way to the arcade to get his token, pulled into a fight he’d rather run from, memories of Eddie still incomplete but piecing themselves together slowly in his head. He’d been furious with himself when he spotted the carving – he hadn’t seen Eddie in two decades and they’d both grown and changed and gotten sad but his stupid heart still beat like a fucking drum anytime Eddie <em>looked </em>at him, that same spark of lightning he faintly remembered from childhood zapping him into a burnt up crisp the moment Eddie graced him with ounce of attention.</p>
<p>Which was lame as shit. Richie was an adult, for one. Eddie was married, for two. Three: they were all about to <em>die </em>fighting an alien clown, but still somehow his stomach was doing hormonal giddy sumersaults and he hadn’t been so dick-dumb in <em>years</em>. It was pathetic.</p>
<p>Plus it <em>hurt</em>; staring down proof that once upon a time he had the guts to stab his hopeless gay love into the same place all the jackasses who shoved him around in the hallway took their girls. But there it was, almost untouched by time, a little shrine to the part of Richie that had been so angry and in love he had put it somewhere, all the stored up ‘<em>FUCK YOU</em>’s and ‘<em>I’M VALID</em>’s and ‘<em>IF A SERIAL KILLING CLOWN COULDN’T DO IT, THERE’S NO WAY YOU ASSHOLES CAN KEEP ME DOWN</em>’s where everyone could see it.</p>
<p>That Richie – pre-clown-showdown, pre-deadlights, pre-Eddie – had cringed to see evidence that once he had been brave before he turned into whatever the fuck he grew up to be. A coward. A man who hid behind a persona and lost a little more of himself every day.</p>
<p>But now, looking at the R+E with new eyes, standing next to Eddie who kissed him every morning and held him every night, who went to his shows and laughed at his jokes and defended his honor on twitter, who knew how Richie liked his coffee and always gave Richie the pickles off his sandwiches instead of asking to have them left off, who said ‘<em>I love you</em>’ like he was pissed about it which was the <em>best thing ever</em>, Richie wanted so badly to reach through time and tell that brave little bastard everything was worth it. Every single fucking second of it. Because it led him here.</p>
<p>“You really went to town with that knife,” Eddie said, sounding weirdly impressed. “I mean that shits <em>deep</em>.”</p>
<p>“I was furious and repressed and desperately in love with you, Eds,” Richie laughed, delighted by the eyebrow slowing rising up Eddie’s forehead. “And I was bursting with so much adrenaline I probably coulda carved straight through to the other side.”</p>
<p>“That woulda fucked up the R,” Eddie said, practical as ever. “And your noodle arms couldn’t do shit. I’m just shocked you didn’t lose a fucking finger,” he continued, smiling the way he only ever did for Richie – soft and warm and open. <em>In love</em>. With Richie. What a fucking world.</p>
<p>Eddie’s adventures with decorating had been a tumultuous endeavor, the space over the mantle having proved a baffling point of contention for him. And Richie <em>really </em>liked the photo - so much he might be crying if he hadn’t shed a year’s worth of tears the night before - but it would look good over their bed or behind the kitchen table or a million other places if Eddie decided he didn’t like it over the mantle.</p>
<p>So he nodded his head towards the photo and asked, “Think this is temporary?”</p>
<p>“No way,” Eddie said, not taking his eyes off Richie, stepping closer, and Richie’s hands automatically landed on his hips, the sturdy shape of them so right under his palms. Eddie smiled, curled his arms around Richie’s shoulders, and promised, “This is forever, sweetheart.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>And it's done! Apparently I started this last July (I had to check the word doc because I couldn't even fucking remember, that's how long it's been) and I had no fucking idea it was going to be this lengthy but to all those who made it here, thank you so <i>so</i> much for reading! I'm so grateful you went on this journey with me. </p>
<p>I'm surely not done with this fandom though hopefully whatever I write next won't be over 250,000 words long, jesus fucking christ. Find me on twitter @BadNotso and thanks again for all the support!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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